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HENRY  DUNBAR; 

OR, 

A DAUGHTER’S  TRIALS. 


A DRAMA  IN  FOUR  ACTS. 


BOUNDED  ON  MISS  BEADDON’S  NOVEL  OF  THE  SAME  NAME. 


Bt  tom  TAYLOE,  Esa., 

Authm'  of  “ Babes  in  the  Woodf  “ Tlie  FooVs  Revenge f etc. 


AS  PRODUCED  AT  THE  ROYAL  OLYMPIC  THEATRE,  LONDON,  UNDER 
THE  MANAGEMENT  OE  MR.  HORACE  WIGAN,  DEC.  9, 

1865,  AND  AT  Wallace’s  theatre, 

NEW  YORK,  NOV,  2,  1867. 

TO  WHICH  IS  ADDED 


A DESCRIPTION  OF  THE  COSTUME — CAST  OP  THE  CHARACTERS — ^EN- 
TRANCES AND  EXITS — RELATIVE  POSITIONS  OP  THE  PER- 
FORMERS ON  THE  STAGE,  AND  THE  WHOLE 
OF  THE  STAGE  BUSINESS. 


CHICAGO 

THE  DRAMATIC  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


HENRY  DUNBAR; 


CAST  OF  CHAItAGTERS. 


Royal  Olympic  Theatre^ 
London^  Dec.  9,  1867. 

Henry  Dunbar. Mr.  H.  Neville. 

Clement  Austin Mr.  H.  J.  Montague. 

Arthur  Lovell,. Mr.  H.  G.  Clifford. 

Henry  Carter,  a Detective Mr.  R.  Soutar. 

The  Major,  with  several  aliases Mr.  G.  Vincent. 

Jerrams,  Head  Waiter  at  the  Georg-e.Mr.  H.  Cooper. 

Hartogg,  a Jewel  Merchant Mr.  H.  Rivers. 

Balderby,  J unior  Partner  in  the  house 

of  Dunbar  & Balderby Mr.  S.  H.  Williams. 

Thomas  Tibbs,  Carter’s  Mate Mr.  Pranks. 

Office  Messenger Mr.  Cowdery. 

Margaret  Went-worth Miss  Kate  Terry. 

Laura  Dunbar Miss  Ellen  Leigh. 

Mary  Madden Miss  E.  Farren. 


Wallack^s  Theatre,  Nev> 
York,  Nov.  2, 1867. 

Mr.  J.  W.  Wallace. 
Mr.  B.  T.  Ringgold. 
Mr.  C.  H.  Rockweli.. 
Mr.  A.  W.  Young. 

Mr.  E.  L.  Davenport. 
Mr.  Geo.  Holland. 

Mr.  J.  C.  AVilliamson. 

Mr.  G.  Browne. 

Mr.  T.  Ward. 

Mr.  E.  Cashin. 

Miss  Rose  Eytinge. 
Miss  Annie  Ward. 
Miss  Mary  Barrett. 


PROPERTIES. 

Parcel,  letter,  prospectus,  card,  umbrella,  “Times”  newspaper,  dispatch-box, 
handcuffs,  lighted  candles,  papers,  letter  and  portrait  in  desk,  a diary,  tea-table  and 
tea  things,  envelope  and  letter,  sandwich-box  (containing  diamond  paper)  with  chain 
to  fasten  round  waist,  diamonds,  account  books,  bank  notes,  check-book,  old  shoe, 
bottles  and  glasses,  brandy,  leather  belt  divided  into  compartments,  little  canvasv 
bag,  wine,  revolver,  night-lamps,  pens,  ink  and  paper,  oil  for  lamp. 


time-the  present  I day. 

COSTUMES-OF  THE  PERIOD. 


Stage  Direction.— R.  means  Right  of  Stage,  facing  the  Audience ; L.  Left ; C. 
Centre ; R.  C.  Right  of  centre ; L.  C.  Left  of  centre.  D.  F.  Door  in  the  Flat,  or 
Scene  running  across  the  back  of  the  Stage ; C.  D.  F.  Centre  Door  in  the  Flat ; R . 
D.  F.  Right  Door  in  the  Flat ; L.  D.  F.  Left  Door  in  the  Flat ; R.  D.  Right  Door : 
L.  D.  Left  Door;  1 E.  First  Entrance;  2 E.  Second  Entrance;  D.  E.  Upper  En* 
trance ; 1,  2 or  3 G.  First,  Second  or  Third  Groove. 


TIME  IN  REPRESENTATION— THREE  HOURS. 


3 


HKXKY  DUXBAR. 

SCENERY. 

Cottage,  humble,  but  prettily  furnished. 
Bow  Window. 


Door.  (G.  1.)  Door,  j 


rx  I ^ A^ 

ACT  I.  -SCENE  1 


ICT  I.— Scene  2.  Handsome  sitting-room— folding  doors  at  the  back  opening  on 

landing. 


Folding  Doors. 


[ Fireplace. 

Easy  Chair.2 


Door.  Door. 


ACT  II.— Scene  1.  Drawing-room  luxuriously  furnished. 


Door. 


Tripod  Tea-table. 


) ACT  n.— Scene  2.  Waiting-room  in  the  Bank. 


4 


HKNRY  DUNBAR. 


ACT  II.  Scene  3.  Tlie  Bank  Parloi’.  Window  with  blinds. 

GU&s  Doors  with  Curtains.  •••:•*•** 


Door. 


Door. 


Door. 


Door. 


ACT  III.— Scene.  Picturesque  Elizabethan  Room,  tapestry  hung  or  pannelled. 


Window  looking  on  Autumnal  Landscape. 


Door.  (E.  3} 


(X.  3}  Door. 


Fireplace. 


Side  Table. 


(E.  1) 


Door. 


ACT  IV. — Scene  1. — Same  as  last. 

ACT  r\  .—Scene  2.  Entrance  Hall  of  Woodbine  Cottage. 
ACT  IV. — Scene  3.  Sitting-room. 


£Asy  Chair.S 


IFor  Symptit  of  the  Play,  see  pages  38,  39  and  40.] 


HEITEY  DUE-BAK. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  FIRST. — Room  in  Margaret  Wentworth's  cottage  at  Wandsworth, 
humble  but  prettily  furnished — bow  window  c.,  with  muslin  curtain,  door 
R.  and  L.  (Is^  grooves) — a loud  ring  heard  as  the  curtain  rises. 

Enter  Mary,  l. 

Mary.  Bless  my  ’art,  whoever’s  that  a ringin’  at  the  garden  gate,  as  if 
they’d  wrinch  the  wire  out '?  {looking  out  at  window)  My,  if  it  ain’t  a foot- 
man and  carriage ! And  if  there  ain’t  that  darlin’  Miss  Laura  Dunbar  a 
gettin’  out.  Oh,  if  all  Miss  Margaret’s  pupils  was  like  her ! {shuts  gate) 
I don’t  mind  the  footman  airin’  his  calves,  but  I can’t  keep  her  waitin’. 

\Exit  Mary,  l. 

Enter  Laura,  l.,  escorted  by  Mary,  carrying  a parcel. 

Laura.  Well,  Mary,  you  never  saw  me  arrive  in  Mie  state-coach  be- 
fore. {speaks  off)  Oh,  tell  George  the  carriage  can  wait.  I’ve  brought  you 
your  aunt  Madden’s  love,  Mary. 

Mary.  Thank  you,  miss ; nothing  else,  miss  '? 

Laura.  No,  did  you  expect  anything '? 

Mary.  I hoped  she  might  have  found  me  a situation,  please  miss  I 

Laura.  Why,  you’re  not  going  to  leave  Miss  Wentworth  I 

Mary.  Oh,  please  miss,  she  says  she  can’t  afford  two,  and  she’s  cornin’ 
to  a maid  of  all  work.  Both  me  and  cook  wants  to  stop  if  it  was  at  a re- 
duction and  no  beer ; but  cook’s  to  stop  ’cos  I can’t  undertake  the 
kitchen. 

Laura.  You  shall  come  to  me,  Mary.  Dear  nursey  Madden  is  getting 
old,  and  you  can  take  the  fag  off  her  hands — dressing  me  and  making 
the  five  o’clock  tea,  and  all  that. 

Mary.  Call  that  fag,  miss  I Fun  I call  it.  Oh,  I shall  be  so  happy ! 

Laura.  We  shall  be  very  good  friends,  I’m  sure — I always  get  so  fond 
of  my  maids. 

Mary.  Which  it’s  wicy  wersa,  miss,  I’m  sure  they  must  get  so  fond  o’ 
you. 

Laura.  I’m  glad  Miss  Wentworth  is  not  here — I’-^e  a surprise  for  her, 
a little  birth-day  present,  but  it’s  such  a secret.  1 may  run  up  with  it 
into  her  pretty  bed-room,  mayn’t  I ? I’ll  be  so  good  and  not  rummage  a 


6 


HENKY  DUNBAR. 


bit,  and  if  she  comes  in  before  Fm  down,  you  may  say  Fm  there,  but  not 
a word  of  this  {shows  parcel)  or  I shall  be  so  angry,  {runs  off^  r.) 

Mary.  Ah,  bless  her  bright  eyes,  she’s  like  the  patent  gold  reviver 
cornin’  into  a place,  she  is.  Oh,  shan’t  I be  happy  dressin’  her  ! {knocks  l., 
looks  out)  Two  gents ; what  do  they  want,  I wonder.  [Exit^  l. 

Ee-enter  immediately^  l.,  showing  in  Carter. 

Carter.  So,  Miss  Wentworth’s  not  at  home,  eh  7 (5*^5  down^  looks  sharp- 
ly about  him.) 

Mary.  Would  you  leave  a message,  sir  1 

Carter.  Well,  I don’t  know  that  I can  exactly. 

Mary.  Which  if  I might  ask,  was  it  lessons,  sir  ] 

Carter.  Well,  I don’t  know  but  what  it  might  end  in  lessons.  Fve 
heard  so  much  of  Miss  Wentworth’s  teaching. 

Mary.  Ah,  that  you  may  well  say,  which  I’ve  heard  there  ain’t  any- 
thing better  to  be  had  from  the  Royal  Academy  of  Harts,  not  if  you  was 
to  give  pounds  where  Miss  Marg’ret  she  have  shillins,  bless  her ! 

Carter.  And  a steady,  hard-working  girl,  too,  Fm  told  ? 

Mary.  Steady,  sir  ! Well,  if  livin’  on  short  allowance  for  a sparrer, 
and  workin’  as  regular  as  the  clock,  and  spendin’  next  to  nothin’  on  her- 
self, and  never  havin’  a hard  word  for  nobody  makes  a hangel.  Miss 
Mar’gret’s  one,  which  I often  says  “ if  all  has  their  rights,”  I says, 
“ yours  is  the  ’evins  above,”  I says  ! 

Carter.  Well,  if  Miss  Wentworth  ain’t  at  home,  perhaps  her  father  is  7 

Mary.  No,  sir,  he  are  not. 

Carter.  Ah,  sorry  for  that,  I should  a’  liked  to  have  made  his  ac- 
quaintance. He’s  obliged  to  be  away  from  home  a great  deal,  I sup- 
pose I 

Mary.  Quite  off  and  on,  sir  ; sometimes  he’ll  be  here  a month  togeth- 
er, then  away  a week,  then  at  home  a day  or  two,  and  so  on.  And  Miss 
Margaret  is  that  fond  of  him  ! 

Carter.  Poor  girl,  she  must  find  his  being  away  so  much  a great  an- 
noyance 1 

Mary.  She  do  take  on  about  it,  sir ; but,  bless  you,  she’s  such  a pa- 
tient creature. 

Carter.  And  business  is  business.  I’ll  be  bound  he's  not  much  here 
in  business  hours  I Oftenest  after  dark  1 — I daresay. 

Mary.  It  is  mostly  latish. 

Carter.  He  was  here  last  night,  you  said  I 

Mary.  Did  I ! well,  I must  have  mentioned  it  promiscw5  then.  Least- 
ways  he  was  here,  and  left  early  this  morning  by  first  train  for  South- 
ampton, as  far  as  I understood  him  and  Miss  Margaret’s  talk  about  it  at 
breakfast. 

Carter  (to  himsef).  Too  late ! I was  afraid  I should.  However,  the 
Major’s  at  Winchester,  and  Southampton  will  be  all  in  my  road.  There’s 
a train  in  ten  minutes.  Well,  my  dear,  when  Miss  Wentworth  comes 
in 

Mary.  Oh  ! here  is  Miss  Margaret ! 

Enter  Margaret  Wentworth,  l. — Carter  bows, 

Marg.  a stranger ! (looks  at  him.) 

Mary.  A gent  as  have  called  about  lessons,  Miss. 

Marg.  Oh,  I shall  be  very  glad,  I’m  sure ; I’ve  rather  too  many  hour* 
open  just  now. 


jLCT  I. 


7 


Carter.  Well,  you  see  my  good  lady  was  thinking  of  having  our  girl 
put  to  a good  music  mistress,  but  I was  to  inquire  about  terms  first. 

Marg.  {going  to  mantel-piece).  Here  is  one  of  my  prospectuses,  sir. 
(Mary  gives  her  a letter)  A letter  in  papa’s  handwriting  ! 

Carter  {aside).  Poor  young  thing,  poor  young  thing ! 

Mary.  And  please  miss.  Miss  Laura’s  up  stair  -in  your  room. 

Marg.  Miss  Dunbar  ! I’ll  come  to  her. 

Mary.  Yes,  miss.  I’ll  tell  her.  {aside)  I wonder  is  it  an  Area-sneak  1 

\Exit^  R 

Marg.  If  you’ll  excuse  me — when  you  have  made  up  your  mind  as  to 
my  terms  {giving  prospectus)  you  can  let  me  know. 

Carter.  Thank  you,  miss  ! it’s  my  good  lady  you  see,  she’s  that  par- 
ticular to  a shilling  or  two.  {looks  at  card)  I'm  sure  they  seem  very  mod- 
erate. 

Marg.  They  enable  me  to  live,  sir,  and  to  pay  my  way,  I can’t  venture 
to  ask  more. 

Carter.  It’s  a hard  life,  miss,  for  one  so  young  and  delicate  looking. 

Marg.  Oh,  I’m  stronger  than  I look,  and  I’ve  been  used  to  hard  work, 
and  then  independence  is  very  sweet. 

Carter.  Yes,  but  going  about  giving  lessons  is  rather  too  indepen- 
dent, I should  have  thought,  for  an  unprotected  girl  like  you. 

Marg.  Unprotected,  sir!  I can  dispense  with  protectors;  I’ve  been 
used  to  take  my  own  part. 

Carter.  And  quite  right  too,  my  dear,  {she  looks  annoyed)  Excuse  me, 
miss,  I don’t  mean  it  as  a liberty,  but  I’ve  one  about  your  age  at  home. 
{earnestkj)  Heaven  bless  you,  my  poor  child  1 Heaven  bless  you,  and 
keep  you  I There's  no  harm  in  that. 

Marg.  No,  sir ; good  wishes  can  never  harm  us  when  they’re  in  ear- 
nest, and  I feel  yours  are. 

Carter  {going).  Good  morning,  {offers  hand)  No  offence,  {aside)  Now 
for  Southampton.  I’m  glad  he  ain’t  here.  I shouldn’t  have  had  the 
heart  to  clinch  him  afore  that  innocent  face  o’  hers.  Hallo  ! Master  Car- 
ter, stow  that,  ’twon’t  do  for  you  to  be  turning  spooney.  [Exit^  l. 

Marg.  Very  extraordinary  person,  to  be  sure;  but  papa’s  letter ! {tak- 
ing it  out.)  What  can  be  the  secret  he  dared  write  but  not  speak  I Oh,  if 
I could  but  wean  him  from  his  dark  life  and  desperate  courses — if  he 
would  but  stay  here  and  be  always  his  better  self,  that  others  might 
know  the  good  in  him  as  I do.  {opens  the  letter  and  reads)  “ My  darling — 
{kisses  the  letter)  You  know  I am  bound  for  Southampton,  but  not  my 
errand  there.  I told  you  my  first  crime  was  forgery  {she  shudders)  com- 
mitted to  save  a young  master  whom  I loved  very  dearly.  The  forgery 
was  detected,  my  master  was  screened,  sent  out  to  India.  I was  denounc- 
ed, tried,  sentenced.  He  might  have  stood  between  me  and  the  law,  but 
he  refused  to  speak  a word  or  lift  a hand  in  my  behalf.  From  that  day  I 
was  a blighted,  branded  man ; I tried  to  get  back  to  honest  courses,  but 
my  crime  stood  between  me  and  them  {she  sobs)  till  I grew  what  I am,  an 
outcast,  everyone’s  hand  against  me,  and  my  hand  against  everyone.”  Oh 
no,  father,  not  everyone’s  ! I pity  you.  {resumes  her  reading.)  “ I learn’ t yes- 
terday that  this  man  is  coming  back  to  England.  I mean  to  meet  him, 
to  see  if  he  will  do  more  now  for  the  man  whose  ruin  lies  at  his  door  than 
he  would  twenty-five  years  ago,  and  if  he  won’t,  to  give  him  apiece  of  my 
mindff  why  has  he  underlined  that  I “I  dared  not  tell  you  this  last 
night — I knew  you  would  dissuade  me.”  Oh,  yes,  yes  ! “I  write  you 
his  name  that  you  may  remember  it,  not  in  your  prayers,  as  that  of  the 
author  of  your  father’s  ruin  in  this  world  and  the  next.  It  is  Henry 
Dunbar!”  Henry  Dunbar!  Laura’s  father!  There  is  indeed  a gulf 
henceforth  between  her  innocent  heart  and  mine  ! I wish  I could  have 


8 


HENRY  DtTNBAR. 


stayed  him  from  this  journey, — my  mind  misgives  me,  lest  some  terrible 
consequence  result  from  this  meeting.  Who  s there  ? 

Enter  Clement  Austin,  l. 

Clem.  Forgive  me  for  entering  unannounced ! Miss  Wentworth,  you 
look  pale,  I’m  afraid  I have  frightened  you. 

Marg.  No,  no  ! It  is  nothing  ; I have  not  been  very  strong  of  late,  and 
a little  startles  me  ; won’t  you  sit  down,  {they  sit.) 

Clem.  Oh,  Miss  Wentworth,  if  you  would  but  take  more  care  of  your- 
self. 

Marg.  No,  I can’t  afford  to  be  fanciful.  You  and  your  mother  want 
to  spoil  me.  As  it  is,  you  and  your  mother  pay  me  twice  my  terms  for 
your  niece’s  lessons. 

Clem.  Pay  you ! as  if  anything  could  pay  for  the  privilege 

Marg.  {interrupting).  Ah,  you  mean  you  steal  a lesson,  at  the  same 
time  Yes,  you  are  certainly  the  most  attentive  of  uncles. 

Clem,  {earnestly  and  impatiently).  Oh,  this  persiflage  is  idle.  Miss  Went- 
worth— Margaret 

Marg.  Mr.  Austin! 

Clem.  Let  me  call  you  so : you  cannot  have  misunderstood  my  feel- 
ings. 

Marg.  Yes ! I feel  your  kind,  your  compassionate  intere:^t  in  me — 
your’s  and  your  mother’s. 

Clem.  You  talk  of  interest.  Miss  Wentworth.  That  may  have  first  in- 
spired the  wish  to  serve  you. 

Marg.  I felt  it,  I felt  it  all. 

Clem.  But  as  I came  to  learn  your  sweet  and  self-devoted  nature,  as  I 
sat  by  your  side  and  marked  your  gentle  grace,  and  drank  the  music  of 
3^our  voice,  pity  kindled  to  passion,  and  interest  became  love  ; yes,  Mar- 
garet, I love  you  ! {getting  to  her  side.) 

Marg.  {extricating  herself  and  turning  away)  No ! no  ! 

Clem.  With  a love  as  true,  as  pure,  as  full  of  reverent  regard  as  ever 
man  felt  for  woman,  I love  you,  Margaret ! 

Marg.  It  must  not  be,  Mr.  Austin  ! There  is  a impassable  barrier  be- 
tween me  and  such  feelings. 

Clem.  You  love  another  ? 

Marg.  No  ! 

Clem.  Then  you  must  love  me,  Margaret.  If  not  now,  in  time.  A 
love  like  mine  must  command  an  answer. 

Marg.  Not  from  me  ! 

Clem.  Not  from  you!  You,  whose  tenderness  brims  over  to  meet 
every  advance  from  a pupil,  a child,  a pet  bird ! And  you  cannot  love  ! 
Margaret  I will  not  believe  it ! 

Marg.  Mr.  Austin  you  force  me  to  trust  you  with  a secret  which  has 
been  my  own  misery,  night  and  day,  since  I learnt  it.  Qow  and  slowly 
and  half  averting  her  face)  My  father  is  a dishonored  man — an  outcast. 
{sitU  lower  and  more  sadly)  a criminal ! 

Clem.  My  poor  love  ! And  he  is  your  father. 

Marg.  And  yet  if  you  knew  all,  you  would  judge  him  mercifully,  I am 
sure  you  would — I do,  my  mother  did,  she  died  with  a prayer  that  he 
might  be  brought  to  see  the  error  of  his  ways,  and  I prayed  with  her. 
Till  I grew  up  our  life  was  one  of  wandering  and  wretchedness.  At 
times  my  father  got  employment,  but  before  long  the  curse  followed  us : 
a breath,  a whisper  w^as  enough  ; he  never  found  any  one  to  hold  out  a 
hand  to  the  outcast  and  say,  “ I know  your  past,  I will  help  you  to  re- 
deem your  future.”  Not  one  ! not  one  ! {pause)  Now  y6u  know  the  bar- 


i.CT  I. 


9 


rier  that  stands  between  Margaret  Wentworth  and  the  love  of  an  honest 
man ! 

Clem.  Not  so,  Margaret.  Knowing  all  this,  nay,  all  the  more  because 
I know  it,  again  I say,  Margaret  Wentworth,  be  my  love,  my  wife  ! 

Marg.  My  generous,  my  noble  Clement!  Yes!  I love  you,  I will  be 
your  own,  but  not  yet.  I have  a work  to  do : to  win  back  my  father  to 
the  right  way : we  will  watch  over  him  together,  with  loving  hopes,  with 
prevailing  prayers ! Oh,  Clement,  it  will  be  a grievous  struggle.  Are 
you  strong  enough  to  go  through  it  1 

Clem.  Yes,  Margaret,  if  I may  share  it  with  you. 

Marg.  God  bless  you,  my  own  Clemerft  {solemnly,) 

Laura  {without),  Margaret ! 

Marg.  Hark  ! Laura’s  voice  ! Clement,  I must  leave  you  ! (Clement 
kisses  her  hand  in  tender  leave-taking)  How  shall  I meet  her,  with  my  father’s 
wrongs  between  us  'I 

[Exeunt  Clement,  l.,  and  Margaret,  r.,  closed  in  by 


SCENE  SECOND — Interior  of  a handsofiue  sitting-room  at  the  “ Georg e^'‘ 
Winchester  ^folding  doors  at  the  back  opening  on  landing — doors^  r.  and  l. 
Fire-place  with  fire  burning^  r.  Easy  chair,  l. 


Enter  the  I^.Iajor,  c.,  cautiously  looking  about  him,  and  humming,  to  The  light 
of  other  daysf 

The  togs  of  other  days  are  faded 

And  all  their  glory  fled  ! 

I once  was  the  flower,  now  I’m  the  seed ! Yes,  Major,  you’re  down  on 
your  luck,  disgustingly  down ; the  traps  were  after  you  in  the  little  vil- 
lage, so  you  tried  country  air  for  the  benefit  of  your  health  and  your  only 
visible  resource  is  now,  the  k’rect  cyard  of  the  Winchester  Races,  {with^ 
the  hoarse  manner  of  a ring  bettor)  “ I back  the  field.  Twenty  to  one 
against  anything,  bar  one  ! ” It’s  a precarious  profession,  brings  one  into 
bad  company,  and  is  altogether  below  the  pitch  of  a man  who  has  kept 
his  own  running  horses — devilish  fast  ones,  too ; so  fast,  they  ran  through 
two  thousand  a year  in  no  time  and  landed  their  pro-per-i-etor  in  Queer 
Street ! So,  this  is  Joe  Wilmot’s  crib ! I never  saw  Joe  in  such  feather 
— a slap-up  rig  out,  new  and  fashionable,  from  tile  to  toe-cases.  I won- 
der if  Joe  would  stand  a couter,  but  {shaking  his  head)  ^toggibus  nulla  fides  ! 
He’s  nailed  a flat,  a slap-up  swell : I stalked  ’em,  in  close  confab,  into 
that  wood  near  St.  Cross.  Joe  seemed  to  be  pitching  it  strong.  I 
thought  once  of  dropping  down  on  his  little  game,  and  calling  ‘‘  halves  ” 
in  the  stakes ! But  I remonstrated  with  myself  severely  and  decided  on 
waiting  for  ’em  here.  Joe  may  be  glad  of  a third  party,  if  it  comes  to  a 
rubber  and  a touch  of  hankey  pankey  {imitates  cutting  the  cards,)  I flat- 
ter myself  I still  know  how  to  walk  into  a coffee  room,  as  if  I mean  t 
custom  and  scorned  the  spoons,  {looks  about  him)  Decidedly  the  thing  {con- 
temptuously) for  Winchester.  “ Here  will  I plant  my  torch,”  {putting  down 
his  umbrella)  as  0.  Smith  used  to  say  in  the  Di’eam  at  Sea,  and  hero  “ put 
off  the  load  of  this  world-weary  flesh.”  {takes  off  F-coat)  A P-coat,  like 
charity,  covers  a multitude  of  sins,  especially  sins  of  omission  in  the  way 
of  linen.  There!  {takes  paper  from  tab'e)  Here’s  yesterday’s  “Times;” 
ah,  in  these  provincial  places  it  always  is  yesterday’s  “ Times.”  Well, 
compensation  is  the  great  law  of  nature.  . If  the  news  is  stale,  the  eggs 
iu’e  fresh  and  so  are  the  natives,  {reads paper,) 


10 


HENBY  DUNBAR. 


Enter  Jbrrams,  r.,  to  lay  the  cloth^  begins  his  work,  at  first  not  seeing  the  Ma- 
jor behind  the  “ Times,  ’ hut  seeing  him,  pauses. 

Jer.  a party  ! { 'pauses  and  works  round  so  as  to  get  a survey)  not  much 
of  a party,  to  judge  by  his  hoots  ! {ind>Mjust  at  the  Major’s  seediness)  Sir  ! 
(Major  continues  to  read)  Sir ! {same  bus  ness  : very  loud)  Sir ! 

Major  {looking  over  the  paper).  Sir,  to  you ! {resumes  his  reading)) 

Jer.  Was  you  aware,  sir.  tliis  were  a private  room'? 

Major.  Well,  .James '?  {mildly.)  • . 

Jer.  Which  my  name  is  not  James,  sir.  It  is  hoccupied  by  two 
gents. 

Major.  Pardon  me,  John. 

Jer.  Which  my  name  is  not  John,  neither,  sir. 

Major.  Not  John  either  1 Is  it  possible  ! 

Jer.  Which  my  name  is  Jerrams,  sir. 

Major.  Oh,  thank  you.  Then  allow  me  to  remark,  Jerrams,  that  this 
room  is  occupied,  not  by  two  gents,  Jerrams,  but  by  one  gent,  Jerrams, 
that’s  you,  and  one  gentleman,  that’s  me.  {resumes  paper)) 

Jer.  ’Ang  his  himpidence ! I tell  you,  sir,  this  apartment  is  took, 
and  nobody  but  the  party  as  belongs  to  it  has  any  business  here,  {lays 
cloth.) 

Major.  Then  what  are  you  laying  the  cloth  for,  Jerrams  '? 

Jer.  What  for  '?  ’Cos  it’s  my  business. 

Major.  Yet  you  say  nobody  but  the  party  as  belongs  to  the  room  has 
any  business  in  it.  You  are  not  the  party  as  belongs  to  the  room,  ergo 
you  have  no  business  in  it,  ergo  you  had  better  go.  That’s  a syllogism, 
Jerrams. 

Jer.  Sillygism  or  not,  sir,  I ’ave  to  beg  you’ll  walk  out  o’  this. 

Major.  Out  of  this,  Jerrams ! Out  of  what  1 

Jer.  Out  of  this  private  sitting-room,  sir,  which  its  engaged  by  Mr. 
Henry  Dunbar,  the  great  banker  that’s  just  come  from  Indy  by  this  day’s 
P.  and  0.  boat,  worth  a million  o’  money,  they  say,  if  he’s  worth  a penny, 
and  his  friend. 

Major  {aside).  That’s  Joe ! So,  so.  He  has  hooked  something  like  a 
fish — a million  pounder ! {to  Jerrams)  I’m  quite  aware  of  the  fact,  Jer- 
rams. I’m  a friend  of  Mr.  Dunbar’s,  once  removed,  that  is.  I’m  his 
friend’s  friend ; our  friend’s  friends  should  be  our  friends,  so  I have 
called  to  make  his  acquaintance — (Jerrams  looks  at  him  curiously)  and  if 
by  that  inquiring  look  you  mean  to  ask  me  if  I’ll  take  anything  before 
dinner  in  the  way  of  a pick-up,  Jerrams,  you  may  bring  me  a pint  of 
pale  sherry  and  a biscuit,  and  put  it  down  to  our  friend  Dunbar. 

Jer.  {aside).  Well,  he  is  a cool  hand  ! Pint  o’  sherry  indeed ! 

Major.  Dry,  Jerrams,  mind  ; and  while  you  are  about  it,  you  may  as 
>vell  devil  that  biscuit. 

Jer.  Oh,  he’s  too  many  for  me,  by  a long  chalk  ! I’ll  send  master. 

[Exit  Jerrams,  r. 

Major  {looking  about  him).  Our  friend  Dunbar’s  traps,  I see,  all  tip-top. 
{takes  a dispatch  box)  Bramah  lock  ! {tries  it  in  his  hand)  looks  like  money, 
and  feels  heavy.  Tempting — hut  honor,  major  ! You  are  under  the  roof 
of  a friend,  and  if  I know  yo  i,  you  are  not  the  man  to  violate  its  sanc- 
tuary. 

Enter  Jerrams,  r.  1 e. 

Jer.  I beg  your  pardon,  sir,  but  was  you  the  major  h 

Major.  That  is  my  military,  rank,  Jerrams  ; I go  by  the  name  among 
my  intimates. 


JlCT  I. 


11 


Jer.  Then  there's  one  of  your  intimates  in  the  bar  inquirin’  partickler 
alter  you. 

Major.  Indeed  ! Did  he  give  a name  I {tmeasily.) 

Jer.  Which  I think  I ’eard  master  call  ’im  Carter. 

Major.  Harry  Carter  {aside)  the  detective!  Scotland  Yard,  by  jingo  ! 
Did  you  say  I was  here  1 
Jer.  Yes,  s'r.  Shall  1 ask  him  to  walk  up  I 

Major.  Oh,  no,  I won’t  put  him  to  the  trouble  of  coming  to  me,  I’ll  go 
down  to  him  : tell  him  so,  Jerrams.  {looking  about  the  room.) 

Jer.  Y"es,  sir.  Jerrams,  R. 

Major.  A back  staircase!  I’ll  bolt,  {going.,  L., — Tibbs  appears  at  the 
door,  L.) 

Tibbs.  No,  you  don’t,  Major. 

Major.  Carter’s  mate  ! (Carter  appears  at  the  door,  r.) 

Carter.  And  Carter  ! {slips  the  handcuffs  on,  as  he  speaks')  How  are  you, 
Major  7 

Major.  Dropped  a top  of! Well,  I came  down  for  the  races ; but 

I’d  no  notion  of  winning  a couple  of  darbies,  {looking  at  handcuffs)  You 
might  have  let  me  get  through  the  week,  Han  y.  Think  of  my  engage- 
ments. 

Carter.  Y'ou  must  tell  ’em  you’d  a previous  engagement  with  me 
How  are  they  7 {in  aUusion  to  hand-cuffs)  Comfortable  7 

Major.  Tightish,  {sighs)  but,  in  this  world,  one  mustn’t  be  particular. 
Carter  (Jeels  them),  T thought  I’d  got  your  size. 

Major.  Oh,  they’ll  do  very  well.  I say,  what  am  I wanted  for,  Har- 
ry1 

Cartek.  That  Cheapside  job — old  Abram’s  you  know. 

Major.  What,  the  jeweller  7 {radiant)  My  dear  fellow,  it’s  a mistake 
That  was  Scotch  Bob  and  the  Yokel.  I wasn’t  in  it  at  all. 

Carter  {smding).  All  the  better  for  you.  Of  course,  you’ve  your  alibi 
all  square  7 {puts  his  finger  to  his  nose,) 

Major.  I wasn’t,  Harry,  upon  my  honor  ! Y^ou  know  I'm  not  the  man 
to  deceive  you. 

Carter.  I don’t  think  you  are.  Major — ^not  if  I know  it.  However,  if 
you  ain’t  in  it,  nothing  can  come  out  of  it.  But  I say.  Major,  I want 
your  pal — Wentworth,  alias  Wilmot,  you  know  7 
Major  {dryly).  Oh,  do  you  though  7 

Carter.  I thought  I was  dead  on  him  at  Southampton,  but  he’s  dou- 
bled on  us.  If  you  could  give  me  the  office,  I’d  make  it  worth  your  while. 

Major  {with  dignity).  Mr.  Carter,  I thought  you  had  known  me  better. 
Might  I trouble  you  {to  Tibbs)  to  take  out  my  handkerchief  and  wipe 
away  a tear,  {to  Carter)  Mr.  Carter,  you  have  wounded  my  belief  in  my 
fellow  creatures ! 

Carter.  By  the  way,  Major,  they  only  allow  second  class  fares.  If 
you  would  prefer  first,  and  like  to  pay  the  difference. 

Major.  Thank  you.  Harry,  I am  sensible  of  the  delicate  attention. 
Might  I trouble  you  {to  Tibbs)  to  pull  down  my  cuffs  7 Now  then ! 
{aside)  Joe  ought  to  be  much  obliged  to  me.  • 

Carter.  I say,  though,  couldn’t  we  square  it  about  your  pal  7 
Major.  Henry,  don’t  oblige  me  to  be  personal. 

Enter  Jerrams,  r.,  excited. 

Jer.  Here’s  Mr.  Dunbar.  Was  vou  a-going,  sir  7 What  shall  I say  to 
your  friend  1 

Major.  Tell  him  not  to  wait  dinner  for  me,  Jerrams. 

Carter.  Say  the  Major  is  going  to  spend  the  evening  with  me.  {Ex* 


U.  OF  V.X.  LH 


12 


HENKT  DUNBAR. 


eunt  Major  and  followed  by  Tibbs,  k — Jerrams,  after  a rapid  ex^ 

ecution  of  the  usual  waiter's  manceuvres  at  the  table ^ th  rotes  open  the  c.  door — 
two  under-waiters  enter  with  lighted  candles,  bowing  very  low,  and  retiring,  after 
ushering  in  Wentworth  disguised  as  Henry  Dunbar — he  takes  off  hs  wrap- 
per, goes  toll  s travelling -bag, 

Jer.  Would  3’ou  wish  dinner  to  be  served,  sir  1 You  ordered  it  at 
seven,  it’s  getting  on  for  half-past. 

Dunbar.  Thank  you,  I’ll  wait  for  my  companion.  He’s  only  gone  as 
far  as  St.  Cross,  with  a message  from  me  to  my  old  schoolfellow,  Strat- 
ton. 

J ER.  Beg  pardon,  sir,  but  was  it  Mr.  Stratton,  of  the  Hollies,  sir  % 

Dunbar.  Yes. 

Jer.  Mr.  Stratton  has  been  dead  this  ten  years,  sir. 

Dunbar.  Dead  ! dear  me  ! {sighs')  and  who  lives  at  the  Hollies  now  1 

Jer.  His  widder,  sir. 

Dunbar.  No  doubt  she's  keeping  Wiimot  for  an  answer  to  my  note. 
Dead,  eh  I Well,  we  old  Indians  must  expect  that  sort  of  thing. 

Jer.  Yes,  sir,  people  will  drop  otf,  sir,  as  the  saying  is,  sir.  Would 
3"ou  ’ave  up  the  soup,  sir  I 

Dunbar.  No,  I won’t  sit  down  till  Mr.  Wiimot  returns.  We’re  to  dine 
together,  and  I’ve  a great  deal  to  talk  over  with  him. 

Jer.  Naturally,  sir — an  old  friend,  I ’spose,  sir  I 

Dunbar.  Yes,  though  a humble  one.  We  were  boys  together,  and 
more  like  friends  than  master  and  servant. 

Jer.  Servant ! bless  me,  sir,  who’d  ha’  thought  it,  sir,  to  ’ear  you  and 
him  talking  so  free  together  this  morning  ! 

Dunbar.  Oh,  our  old  feeling  came  back  directly  I found  him  on  the 
pier  ready  to  receive  me.  No,  I won’t  sit  down  without  Wiimot.  Wheel 
this  chair  and  table  near  the  lire — so  ; give  me  my  writing-case — yonder. 
(Jerrams  obeys  orders)  Serve  dinner  the  moment  Mr.  Wiimot  arrives. 
{tries  to  open  his  dispatch  box,  hut  bungles  at  the  key  which  hangs  with  others  at 
his  watch  chiin.  {exit  Jerrams,  c.)  passes  his  handover  his  brow,  looks  at  him- 
self in  glass,  sighs,  hut  by  an  effort  regains  h^s  self-possession,  opens  desk,  and 
looks  at  papers,  takes  out  packet  endorsed)  Now  for  it ! my  daughter’s  letters 
— her  portrait,  too.  {looks  at  it,  puts  it  aside)  Poor  girl — poor  girl ! {takes 
out  other  packets)  Letters  from  my  partners  ! — abstract  of  bank  returns — 
memoranda  as  to  investments,  {gets  out  hook)  Diary — Ah,  that’s  precious. 
{lays  it  aside)  Balderby’s  last  letter,  announcing  that  Sampson  Wiimot — 
, yes,  that’s  Joseph  Wilmot’s  brother,  the  old  man  who  had  the  lit  on  the 
road — the  only  man  in  or  about  the  house  who  knows  my  face  would  be 
at  Southampton  to  receive  me.  His  brother  came  instead  ; a far  more 
available  man  than  poor  old  Sampson  ! More  letters  ! I shall  have  a 
hard  night’s  work,  but  I don’t  care  for  sleeping  in  a railway  carriage.  I 
don’t  feel  much  like  sleep  anywhere. 

Enter  Jerrams,  c. 

Jer.  If  you  please,  sir,  it’s  getting  on  for  eight,  sir,  and  I beg  your 
pardon,  sir,  but  missus  is  a good  deal  worrited  about  the  soup,  sir. 

Dunbar.  Never  mind  the  soup. 

Jer.  No,  sir,  certainly  not,  sir,  but  you  see,  sir,  you  being  from  India, 
sir,  and  missus  so  proud  of  her  receipt  for  Mulligatawny,  sir,  which  she 
had  it  from  a native,  I ve  understood  lier,  that  come  over  ’ere  as  a prince, 
sir,  but  turned  out  on’y  a ship’s  cook,  sir,  and  run  up  a ’eavy  bill,  sir, 
and  nothing  for  it  but  that  receipt. 

Dunbar.  Tell  her  I never  take  soup. 

Jer.  No,  sir,  in  course  not,  sir — dear  me,  sir,  don’t  you,  sir  ! that  will 


ACT  ir. 


13 


be  a very  great  disappointment  to  missus,  sir.  Wliat  wine  would  you  be 
pleased  to  order,  sir  1 Here  s the  wine  carte,  sir.  (gives  it)  Our  French 
wine’s  generally  approved,  and  there’s  a very  particular  forty  sherry,  sir. 

Dunbar.  Chablis  with  the  fish,  Clos  Vouglot  with  the  removes;  set  it 
near  the  fire  for  five  minutes,  and  put  some  Champagne  in  ice. 

Jer.  Yes,  sir,  certainly,  sir. 

Dunbar  (rising  and  walking  iif  and  down).  Really,  this  is  rather  cool 
treatment  of  Wilmot’s.  An  hour  about  a mile  walk  ! It  can’t  be  more 
than  a mile  'I 

Jer.  No,  sir,  I should  say  not,  sir — I beg  your  pardon,  sir,  but  from 
what  to  which 

Dunbar.  From  where  I left  him,  the  second  field  past  the  cathedral. 

Jer.  Not  a mile  from  there  to  the  Hollies,  sir.  It’s  just  through  Hag 
Bottom,  sir,  that’s  the  wood  in  the  next  field,  sir. 

Dunbar.  I know  ; I left  him  on  this  side  of  it.  The  road’s  perfectly 
safe,  I suppose  I 

Jer.  Oh,  dear,  yes,  sir,  safe  as  the  bank,  sir.  That  is,  to  be  sure, 
there’s  the  hoppers  beginning  to  be  about,  and  they're  a roiighish  lot, 
you  know,  sir — Irish,  a good  many  on  ’em,  and  I can’t  abear  Irish. 

Dunbar.  Besides,  it  was  broad  daylight,  (sits)  No,  I’ve  no  doubt  Wil- 
mot  has  found  snug  quarters  at  the  Hollies,  and  is  talking  over  me  and 
my  affairs  with  my  old  schoolfellow  s widow.  Long  as  I’ve  known  Wil- 
mot,  and  much  as  I value  him,  he’s  an  inveterate  gossip ! 

Jer.  Yes,  sir,  he  did  seem  a pleasant,  cheerful  party,  sir.  (murmurs 
heard  wi  hout)  Perhaps  I’d  better  go  and  order  the  wine,  sir.  (he  goes  to 
c.  doors^  as  he  opens  them^  a murmur  is  heard.) 

Dunbar.  What’s  that  ? eh  I (in  alarm.) 

Jer.  a crowd  in  the  ’all,  sir.  They’ve  got  something  under  a sheet 

Dunbar.  Eh  I ^ 

Jer.  On  a shutter  ! (shrinking  hacJc.) 

Dunbar  (fiercely  and  loudly).  Do  you  mean  to  give  me  my  death  of  cold, 
sir,  with  that  open  door  1 

Jer.  (staring  open-mmdhed).  They’re  a lifting  the  sheet  off!  Gracious 
me ! it’s  a corpse,  sir ! They’re  a bringing  it  up  here  ! 

Crowd  appear  in  corridor. 

Dunbar.  Here — how  dare  they — what’s  this  I (goes  up  to  the  Crowd, 
which  opens  to  give  him  a sight  of  what  they  are  carrying)  Joseph  Wilmot  1 
Dead ! (Tableau  and 

END  OF  ACT  FIRST. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  FIRST. — The  drawing  room  in  Mr.  Dunbar  s House  in  Portland  Place 
luxuriously  furnished.  Laura  Dunbar  at  a tripod  tea-table^  r.  c.,  pre^ 
sided  over  by  Mary,  doors  r.  l.  and  c.  ^ 

Mary.  Please,  Miss  Laura,  you  miTst  take  something  ! 

Laura.  How  can  I eat  if  I have  no  appetite,  you  stupid  girl,  and  how 
can  I have  an  appetite  if  I’m  unhappy  I 
Mary.  Unhappy  1 You  miss  1 

Laura  (throwing  herself  back  m her  chair).  Oh,  if  you  knew,  Mary  ! 
Mary.  You,  that  aunt  says  used  to  be  as  blithe  as  a bird,  and  as  merry 
as  a cricket,  she  says. 


14 


UENKY  DUNBAR. 


Laura.  Ah,  that  wa.s  while  I was  looking  forward  to  papa’s  coming 
back.  ■ , 

Mary.  Well,  miss,  and  now  he  has  come  back. 

Laura.  That’s  it ! He  doesn’t  love  me.  (Mary  makes  a sign  of  dissent) 
Oh,  you  may  shake  your  head,  Mary,  and  say  stuff  and  nonsense  to  your- 
self, but  I know  ! {she  sobs  and  buries  her  face  in  her  handkerchief,) 

Mary.  Now  just  you  take  a cup  of  tea,  Miss  Laura,  and  swallow  all  I 
them  vapors  with  it. 

Laura  {vehemently).  It  is  true,  Mary,  too  true ! Oh,  I could  be  so 
much  to  him,  and  1 am  nothing. 

Mary.  Oh,  please,  miss,  aunt  says  you  mustn’t  take  on  as  if  fathers 
with  banks  and  businesses  had  nothing  to  do  but  love  their  daughters. 
She  says  you  must  make  allowances  for  India.  It’s  so  hot  there,  people 
comes  to  value  coolness  above  everything,  and  ices  their  heartsJike  their 
liquors.  And  then,  she  says,  you  must  allow  for  your  pa’s  liver. 

Enter  Servant,  c.,  announcing. 

Servant.  Mr.  Lovell ! 

Laura  {jumpping  up),  Arthur  ! {Joyously.) 

Mary.  That’s  the  first  time  you’ve  sounded  happy  since  we  came  from 
Warwickshire. 

Enter  Arthur  Lovell,  c. 

Lovell.  Ah,  Miss  Dunbar,  {takes  her  hand  warmly,) 

Mary.  Please,  miss,  hadn’t  I better  look  out  your  new  bonnet  for  your 
drive,  {aside  to  liOv^hh)  Don’t  you  be  dashed,  Mr.  Arthur. 

[Exit  Mary,  l. 

Laura  {who  has  been  making  Lovell  a cup  of  tea).  And  when  did  you 
come  back  from  Warwickshire  ? and  how  did  you  leave  all  my  pets 
at  the  Abbey — the  golden  pheasants,  and  dear  old  Pluto,  and  my  dar- 
ling Lily  I 

Lovell.  All  well.  Oh,  what  would  I give  to  see  you  on  Lily  again ! 

Laura.  Oh  yes,  shan't  we  have  delightful  long  rides  together,  this 
year  I 

Lovell  {sighs),  I’m  afraid  not. 

Laura  {looks  inquiringly)^ 

Lovell.  I’m  going  away. 

Laura.  Going  away  I 

Lovell.  To  India  1 

Laura.  Going  to  India  I 

Lovell.  Lord  Harristown  has  offered  me  an  Indian  appointment — I 
mean  to  accept  it. 

Laura.  I shall  feel  very  lonely  when  you  are  gone,  {rises)  I shall  have 
nobody  to  care  for  me  much,  {crosses  to  l.) 

Lovell.  You  will  have  your  father. 

Laura  {bursting  out).  Oh,  Arthur,  if  you  only  knew — I meant  to  hide 
it  from  you — from  everybody — but  I can’t,  he  does  not  love  me. 

Enter  Dunbar,  r. 

Lovell  {vehemently).  Not  love  you ! Oh,  who  can  know  you  and  not 
love  you  I Give  me  one  sweet  hope  to  cheer  me  in  my  exile  that  you 
return  my  love. 

Laura  {gives  him  her  hand).  I do  love  you,  Arthuj,  deeply,  truly. 


JLCX  II. 


15 


Henry  Dunbar  coma  fonoard,  they  starts  and  stand  confused. 

Dunbar.  Leave  us,  Laura,  for  a little,  {she  looks  wistfully  at  her  father 
04  if  expecting  a caress,  but  receiving  none.') 

Laura  {goes  into  hcf'  boudoir).  Is  lie  angry  1 [Ex  t,  l.  1 e. 

Dunbar.  I guessed  rightly  then,  Mr.  Lovell  1 

Lovell.  Yes,  sir.  I love  her,  as  truly  ever  man  loved  the  woman  of 
his  choice,  bmt [he pauses.) 

Dunbar.  She  is  the  daughter  of  a man  reputed  very  rich,  and  you  fear 
her  father  may  disapprove  of  your  pretensions.  Eh  I “ Faint  heart 
never  won  fair  lady!”  (Lovell  looks  surprised)  You  are  young,  with  a 
head  on  your  shoulders,  fair  prospects,  everybody’s  good  word ; India 
has  taught  me  to  value  men  for  what  they  are — you  have  my  good  will, 
there’s  my  hand  on  it.  {rises.) 

Lovell.  Oh  sir,  you  put  my  dream  within  my  reach ! May  I tell  her  1 

Dunbar.  I see  no  objection.  But  mind  you  treasure  her  love  : it  is  a 
precious,  a holy  thing — the  pure  love  of  a woman.  I,  who  know  so  well 
what  a daughter’s  love  is,  have  the  best  right  to  say  so. 

Lovell.  And  yet  Laura  is  miserable  under  the  idea  that  you  do  not 
love  her.  If  she  could  have  heard  you  just  now ! 

Dunbar.  It’s  not  every  man  who  can  afford  to  wear  his  heart  on  hii^ 
sleeve,  like  you  young  Adams  and  Eves  of  Fool’s  Paradise.  Yes,  you 
can  tell  her,  and  the  sooner  the  knot’.'’,  tied  the  better.  I shall  be  glad  to 
entrust  her  to  a younger,  a better  protector.  The  climate  and  life  here,  I 
find,  won’t  do  after  India.  I’m  hipped  and  half  hypochondriac  already. 

Lovell.  You  do  look  worn  and  anxious. 

Dunbar.  All  the  climate ; I shall  have  to  try  the  continent,  I foresee. 
{aside — as  if  struck  by  a sudden  thought)  Ha,  yes,  the  very  thing  ! {to  Lov- 
ell) I must  see  you  married  before  I go.  I dislike  lawyer’s  jargon.  I 
shall  give  Laura  a handsome  sum,  make  you  a good  allowance,  and  as 
I’ve  an  old  Indian’s  love  of  gewgaws,  she  shall  have  the  handsomest  dia- 
mond necklace  ever  seen  in  St.  George’s.  I’ll  arrange  for  that  myself. 

Lovell.  Then,  with  your  leave,  sir,  after  I ve  seen  Laura  I’ll  driv# 
straight  to  Doctor’s  Commons. 

Dunbar.  Good,  and  leave  this  {pencils  on  a card)  for  me  in  Hatton  Gar- 
den en  route.  It’s  for  our  biggest  diamond-wallah,  giving  him  an  appoint- 
ment with  me  to-day  in  the  city,  {aside)  The  very  motive  I wanted  1 

[Exit,  R. 

Lovell.  Now  for  my  little  darling ! I’m  the  happiest  man  in  Eng- 
land, and  Dunbar’s  a trump,  an  ace  of  trumps,  the  paragon  of  all  possi- 
ble fathers-in-law ! [Exit  into  Laura’s  boudoir,  l.  1.  e. 

Enter  Margaret  Wentworth,  in  deep  mourning,  ushered  in  by  a servant,  c. 

Servant.  What  name.  Miss  1 

Marg.  Miss  Margaret  Wentworth ! {gives  eard)  Mr.  Dunbar  may  not 
know  the  name,  say  it  is  Miss  Laura's  music  mistress.  (Servant  is  going, 
R.,  but  hearing  bell,  l.  1 e.,  turns  and  exits,  l.)  Yes,  he  refused  to  see  me  at 
Winchester  under  my  own  name  of  Margaret  Wilmot ; slunk  away,  be- 
hind a false  promise,  like  a coward  as  he  is.  At  last  I shall  confront  him. 
And  now  the  terrible  truth  will  look  out  of  my  eyes,  will  speak  through 
my  lips,  till  he  cowers  before  me,  a self- convicted  man  1 He  could  brave 
the  inquest,  the  purblind  jury,  the  partial  and  prejudiced  magistrates ! 
“What  possible  motive?”  motive!  Oh,  had  I been  there  I could  have 
told  them  the  secret  of  Henry  Dunbar’s  youthful  dishonor,  forgotten  by 
all  but  my  father,  the  man  he  had  destroyed.  He  shall  know  that  secret 
did  not  die  with  him — that  I inherit  it. 


16 


HENEY  DUNBA.E. 


Enter  Lauua,  l. 

Marg.  Laura! 

Laura.  Oh,  Margaret  darling  I {runs  up  and  kisses  her.) 

Marg.  Laura,  you  here  ! I had  no  notion  you  were  in  town.  I thought 
you  were  in  Warwickshire  or  I shouldn’t  have  come. 

Laura.  I’m  so  delighted  to  see  you.  I intercepted  your  card.  To 
think  of  your  having  business  with  papa  1 What  is  it  I 

Marg.  I cannot  tell  you. 

Laura.  Oh,  ho,  a secret!  But  what’s  the  matter  1 You’re  in  deep 
mourning! 

Marg.  {Umis  away).  I have  lost  my  father  since  I saw  you. 

Laura.  My  poor  Margaret — and  I was  thinking  only  of  my  own  hap- 
piness ! 

Marg.  Never  mind  me ; tell  me  of  that,  dear. 

Laura.  Arthur  Lovell  has  i)roposed  and  been  accepted  by  papa. 

Marg.  I congratulate  you  ; and  from  my  heart  I wish  you  happy. 

Laura.  I wanted  cheering  up  so  much  ! Papa  was  so  cold  and  stern. 
He  seemed  always  to  have  some  dark  thought  on  his  mind. 

Marg.  Yes,  yes. 

Laura.  But  it  seems  he  was  very  fond  of  me  all  the  while.  He  has 
been  speaking  to  Arthur  so  feelingly,  he  says,  about  the  blessing  of  a 
daughter’s  love. 

Marg.  {with  a wild  little  cry).  Oh,  I cannot  bear  this ! 

Laura.  Forgive  me,  I did  not  think  of  your  loss  : it’s  so  hard  not  to 
be  selfish,  when  one’s  so  happy. 

Marg.  {aside).  And  I must  destroy  all  this  happiness,  and  so  horribly  ! 
Not  now,  not  while  she  is  here,  {to  Laura)  On  second  thoughts,  dear, 
give  me  back  my  card,  I will  not  see  your  father. 

Laura.  Oh,  but  you  can’t  help  yourself  now,  your  card  has  gone  in. 

Marg.  Not  here,  at  least — not  before  you. 

Laura.  In  that  room  {pointing  l.)  you  will  be  quite  alone. 

Marg.  There  is  no  escape ! {aside)  Heaven ! guide  me  aright ! Fa- 
ther, he  had  no  mercy  upon  you  ! [Exit  into  Laura’s  boudoir^  l. 

Laura  {runs  joyously  across  to  r.  door,  and  calls)  Papa,  papa  ! 

Dunbar  {frmn  ivithin).  You  are  alone,  Laura  I , 

Laura.  Yes,  papa,  quite. 

Enter  Henry  Dunbar,  r.,  evidently  agitated,  Margarefs  card  in  his  hand. 

Dunbar.  Mar — the  young  person  who  sent  in  this  card,  where  is  she  I 

Laura.  In  my  boudoir — waiting  to  see  you.  Yes,  you  needn’t  stare, 
she’s  my  dear  friend,  Margaret  Wentworth. 

Dunbar.  Your  friend ! 

Laura.  Yes,  she  used  to  give  me  music  lessons.  She’s  the  dearest 
creature.  (Dunbar  turns  away)  But  she  has  lately  lost  her  fathe’-. 

Dunbar.  What  do  you  mean  by  all  this  I {fiercely)  As  if  didn’t  know 
enough — too  much  about  her. 

Laura.  What  do  you  know  1 

Dunbar.  That  she’s  the  daughter  of  that  poor  wretch,  Wilmot ; the 
man — the  man 

Laura.  Who  received  you  at  Southampton  and  was  so  cruelly  mur- 
dered ! 

Dunbar.  Girl,  how  dare  you  1 Don’t  you  know  I can’t  bear  to  think 
of  it,  to  hear  of  it,  that  it  well  nigh  crazes  me  to  look  back  7 

Laura.  I beg  your  pardon,  papa,  but  her  name  is  Wentworth. 

Dunbar.  One  of  Wilmot’s  many  aliases,  he  told  me  so.  I cannot  see 
her. 


ACT  11. 


17 


Laura.  Not  see  her,  papa  ? 

Dunbar.  No,  the  sight  of  her  would  shake  me  too  much.  I should 
liave  to  live  that  miserable  week  over  again.  I tell  you,  child,  I could 
not  answer  for  the  consequences. 

Laura.  Must  I tell  her  1 

Dunbar.  Tell  her  what  you  will,  so  that  she  goes,  now  and  forever.  * 
More  than  this  your  acquaintance  with  her  must  end. 

Laura.  Oh,  papa,  I love  her  so — she  is  so  fond  of  me  1 

Dunbar.  Slie  is  not  a proper  acquaintance  for  you.  Her  father  was 
a dishonored  man,  an  outcast,  who  knows  what  she  may  be.  {checking 
himself)  No,  no,  Heaven  help  me!  I know  nothing  but  good  of  her! 
Would  I could  say  as  much  of  her  miserable  father,  (he  turns  away.) 

Laura.  How  am  I to  give  her  such  a message  % 

Dunbar.  Your  love  will  find  j^ou  words,  words  that  will  spare  her  pain 
— tell  her  that  I will  never  see  her ; that  she  must  cease  to  seek  it — that  I 
will  make  her  an  allowance  of  two  liundred  pounds  a-year.  Here  is  the 
first  fifty  i30unds : make  her  take  it : poor  girl,  I owe  it  to  her,  Heaven 
knows,  though  he  was  not  much  of  a father  to  her. 

Laura.  Yet  she  loved  him  so  dearly. 

Dunbar.  As  if  I did  not  know  that ! {impetuously)  Go  to  her,  I say,  get 
her  away,  let  me  never  hear  of  her  again  ! 

[Exit  R.,  in  a state  of  strong  excitement. 

Laura.  Pale,  quite  pale,  and  scared ! 1 have  never  seen  him  look  so 
before,  {at  door  h.)  Margaret  ’ 

Enter  Margaret  Wentworth,  l.  u.  e. 

M AUG.  {eagerly).  Weill 

Laura.  I’m  so  sorry,  dear,  papa  refuses  to  see  you. 

Marg.  Then  he  knows  who  I am — Margaret  Wilmot'? 

Laura.  Yes,  he  cannot  bear  the  shock. 

Marg.  I understand. 

Laura.  He  fears  to  call  up  the  horrors  of  that  week  again. 

Marg.  He  may  well  fear ! 

Laura.  And — and — he  says  our  acquaintance  must  end  too  ! 

Marg.  Better  it  should,  oh,  so  much  better ! Good-bye,  ray  darling. 

Laura  {embraces  her  passionately).  Oh,  Margaret ! It  breaks  my  heart 
to  leave  you,  in  your  unhappiness,  too. 

Marg.  It  is  not  your  fault,  {aside — going)  I will  bide  my  time. 

Laura.  Stay,  darling,  he  told  me  to  give  you  this,  {gives  envelope  with 
note)  You  will  receive  the  same  every  quarter. 

Marg.  {tearing  up  and  throwing  down  the  envelope)  I would  sooner  crawl 
from  door  to  door  begging  my  bread  of  the  hardest  stranger  in  this  cruel 
world — I would  sooner  die  of  starvation,  pulse  by  pulse,  and  limb  by 
limb — than  I would  accept  help  from  his  hands  ! 

Laura.  Margaret ! Why,  why  is  this  ? 

Marg.  I cannot  tell  you,  Laura.  May  you  never  know  ! Now,  for  the 
last  time,  good-bye,  and  Heaven  bless  you ! 

Laura  {sadly).  Stay  a moment,  I will  tell  my  father,  {going  r,.  turns) 
Oh,  Margaret ! (Margaret  signals  her  in,  passionately.) 

[Exit  Laura,  r. 

Marg.  Another  broken,  of  the  few  ties  that  linked  my  life  with  love ! 
But  he  shall  not  escape  me.  I will  dog  his  steps — I will  haunt  his  go- 
ings-out  and  his  comings-in,  but  I will  see  him,  and  he  shall  see  me,  if  I 
wait  till  I drop  down  dead ! {going,  c.) 


18 


HENKY  DUNBAH. 


Mnter  Clement  Austin,  c.,  with  papers  in  his  hand, 

Clem.  You  here,  Margaret!  {takes  her  hand  affectionately)  Ah,  I little  an- 
ticipated the  pleasure  of  this  meeting.  It  is  so  many  weary  days  since 
we  met.  ^ 

Marg.  That  was  by  my  own  wish,  Clement,  I can  wrestle  best  with  my 
sorrow  single-handed.  But  you  know  this  man,  or  you  would  not  be 
here  1 

Clem.  Know  him,  Margaret  ? Scarcely ; but  I’m  chief  cashier  in  the 
great  house  he  is  senior  partner  in.  Look,  {shows  paper^  I am  bringing 
him  this  abstract  of  accounts,  as  a preparation  for  his  first  visit  -to  the 
house  this  afternoon. 

Marg.  {eagerly).  Clement,  you  must  take  me  there. 

Clem.  To  the  City,  darling  'I 

Marg.  Where  he  will  be.  You  must  put  me  where  I can  see  and  speak 
with  him — alone,  if  possible  ! 

Clem.  Margaret ! what  have  you  to  do  with  this  man  ? 

Marg.  Henry  Dunbar  owes  my  father  an  awful  debt.  I want  to  re- 
mind him  of  that  debt : to  claim,  not  restitution — Heaven  help  me  and 
him,  it  is  too  late  for  that — but  reparation  ! 

Clem.  Why  not  let  me  urge  your  claim  upon  him  ? 

Marg.  Nobody  can  speak  to  him  as  I can.  Question  me  no  more,  Cle- 
ment. Will  you  do  this  for  me,  for  the  sake  of  our  love  '1 

Clem.  I will.  I know  you  would  ask  nothing  it  would  be  wrong  of  me 
to  do. 

Marg.  My  own  noble  Clement  1 _ 

[Exeunt  Clement,  k.,  Margaret,  l. 

SCENE  SECOND. — Waiting-room  in  the  Bank  of  Dunhar^  Dunbar  and  Bal- 

derhy. 

Snter  Mr.  Balderby,  r.,  rubbing  the  sleeves  of  his  coat,  and  the  knees  of  his 
trousers,  the  Major  following  in  the  act  of  apology. 

Major.  I’m  immeasurably  grieved  ! Allow  me,  my  dear  sir.  {assisting 
him  to  remove  the  dirt.) 

Bald.  No  morei-apologies,  sir,  you  knocked  me  down,  you’ve  picked 
me  up  again,  you  say  you  didn’t  mean  it,  there’s  an  end  of  the  matter. 

Major.  Excuse  me,  sir,  there  is  not  an  end  of  the  matter.  There’s  my 
self-reproach.  Major — I shall  have  to  say  to  myself  for  some  time  to 
come — Major,  you’re  an  ass ! Major,  you’re  a moon-calf ! 

Bald.  Pooh,  pooh,  sir  ! I’m  not  hurt : a brush  and  a basin  will  do  all 
that’s  necessary — so  good  morning. 

Major.  Good  morning  ! By  the  way,  I should  like  to  know  the  name 
of  my  preserver — that  is  the  gentleman  I’ve  had  the  misfortune (Bal- 

derby g ves  card)  Balderby  ! Mister  Balderby  of  the  Great  Indian  House 
of  Dunbar,  Dunbar  and  Balderby  ! My  name  is  Vernon,  Major  Vernon  ; 
I’ve  the  pleasure  of  a slight  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Dunbar,  and  was  com- 
ing here  to  improve  it. 

Bald.  Ah,  made  in  India,  I suppose  7 

Major.  Exactly,  in  India,  up  country ; I’ve  been  knocked  about  in 
most  quarters  of  the  globe.  Then  we  had  a mutual  acquaintance,  that 
poor  fellow  Wilmot 

Bald.  What,  Joseph  Wilmot,  the  man  who 

Major.  Exactly ! melancholy  case.  May  I ask  if  Mr.  Dunbar  is  in 
the  house  at  present ! 

Bald.  He’s  expected  every  minute. 


ACT  ir. 


.10 


Majok  {aside).  If  I could  draw  liim  of  a fiver — a post  obit  on  poor  Joe’s 
account  I {to  Baldekby)  I should  like  to  see  him,  to  talk  over  our  old 
Indian  reminiscences. 

Bald,  {aside):  Free  and  easy — looks  shabby — dare  say  Dunbar  has 
known  some  queer  customers  in  India.  If  you’ll  send  in  your  name  to 
Mr.  Dunbar,  Major 

Miter  Hartogg,  l. 

Ah,  Mr.  Hartogg  I Our  first  diamond  merchant,  Major  I (they  bmv.) 

Major  {aside).  A diamond  merchant ! My  heart  warms  to  him,  and 
hands  too.  {breathes  on  his  Jingers,  while  he  speaks  Balderby  and  Hartogg 
talk  apart.) 

Bald.  What ! you  don’t  mean  that  Mr.  Dunbar  has  begun  buying  dia- 
monds already  ? 

Hart.  Means  to  give  his  daughter  the  finest  thing  in  brilliants  ever 
made  up,  so  he  has  sent  for  me,  and  samples  of  my  best  stones. 

Bald,  {shrugs  his  shouldey's).  Well,  if  he  likes  to  make  ducks  and  drakes 
of  his  money ! 

Hart.  Would  you  like  to  see  the  stones,  Mr.  B.  ? {getting  out  diamond 
paper  from  sandwich  box  ^ fastened  round  his  waist  by  chain)  There’s  beauties, 
single  and  double  cut ! 

Bald.  No,  no ; Ive  no  taste  for  such  trumpery,  if  Dunbar  has.  I'll 
send  you  word  when  he  comes.  \Exit  Balderby,  l. 

Hart.  Trumpery  ! Call  stones  like  these  “ trumpery,”  Major  'i 

Major.  A narrow-minded  man,  sir  ! Only  understands  money  in  the 
rough,  /know  something  about  stones,  I flatter  myself  j if  you  would 
permit  me  to  glance  at  them.  (Hartogg  opens  paper ^ 

Hart.  There,  I think  you’ll  own  these  specimen  brilliants  are  stunners; 
they’ll  eat  into  about  three  hundred  a piece ! 

Major  {taking  the  paper).  Beautiful,  beautiful ! No  objection  to  my 
flashing  ’em  a little,  eh?  {flashes  diamonds  in  paper)  A perfect  feast  of  iri- 
discence  ! {as  Hartogg /oz/s  up  the  other  paper ^ the  Major,  stdl  pretending 
to  look  at  the  stones^  is  about  to  palm  one.) 

Enter  Carter,  r. 

Carter.  Mind,  Major  ! Your  cuff’s  so  wide  one  of  ’em  might  slip  up. 
{taking  stones  from  him,  folds  paper  and  gives  it  back  to  Hartogg')  Best  put 
’em  up,  Mr.  Hartogg,  they’re  ticklish  things  to  handle. 

Major  {aside).  Confound  his  interference — it’s  unhandsome  ! | 

Hart.  I little  expected  to  see  you  here,  Mr.  Carter. 

Carter.  The  Major  here  is  an  old  friend  of  mine.  I saw  him  come  in 
with  Mr.  Balderby,  and  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  shaking  hands. 

Major  {aside  to  him,  severely).  None  of  your  chaff,  sir. 

Hart,  {looking  off,  l.).  Well,  I’m  off  to  the  parlor,  here’s  the  Governor. 

Major  {shows  agitation].  Where?  {looking  off,  l.,  starts)  That!  By 
George ! I 

Carter  {looks  sharp  at  him).  You've  seen  him  before  ? 

Major.  Yes,  in  India ; you  know  I stopped  there  on  my  way  home 
from 

Carter.  Australia,  eh  1 {looking  significantly  at  him.) 

Major.  Exactly,'  when  I came  home  as  subaltern  in  charge  of  invalids. 

Carter  {aside  to  him).  You  are  a cool  hand,  Major. 

Major  {aside  to  Carter).  If  you  tpust  spoil  sport,  Harry,  you  needn’t 
take  aw^ay  a fellow’s  character^ 


20 


HENRY  DUNBA.R. 


Enter  Messenger,  l.  ' 

Messen.  Mr.  Dunbar  will  see  Mr.  Hartogg.  [Exit  Hartogg. 

Major  {writing  on  card  in  pencil).  Take  in  my  card,  Major  Vavasour  ! 

[Exit  Messenger,  l. 

Carter.  Hallo,  Major,  another  alias  ? 

Major.  You  drive  me  to  it,  Harry  ; you’ve  no  respect  for  the  feelings 
of  a fellow’s  godfathers  and  godmothers. 

Carter.  I was  just  in  time ; another  minute  and  you  would  have 
ramped  one  of  those  sparklers,  you  know  you  would. 

Major.  Your  remark  is  jjersonal,  Mr.  Carter.  You  nobbled  me  at 
Winchester  on  an  unfounded  charge ; you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  your- 
self. Luckily  I did  prove  my  alibi  tlien^  to  the  satisfaction  of  a jury  of 
my  countrymen  ; but  if  I’m  to  have  you  always  at  my  heels,  I might  as 
well  be  in  quod  at  once  ; so  good  morning,  Mr.  Carter.  [Exit  Major,  l. 

Carter.  No  you  don’t,  Major ; I don’t  lose,  sight  of  you  so  easily ; 
with  money  and  blank  checks  about,  and  diamonds  handy — who  knows 
— you  might  be  tempted.  " [Exit  Carter,  l. 


SCENE  THIRD. — The  Bank  Parlor ^ glass  doors  with  curtains  over  them,  c.  ; 
doors  first  and  second,  l.  and  R. ; window  with  hlinds — Dunbar  at  table, 
with  Hartogg,  who  is  refoldhig  his  papers,  Balderby  with  his  hack  to 
the  fire. 

Dunbar.  Then  we  understand  each  other.  By  Thursday  you  will 
bring  me  the  diamonds”  unset,  to  the  tune  of  from  seventy  to  eighty 
thousand  pounds.  You  see  I want  an  investment  as  well  as  an  orna- 
ment, Mr.  Hartogg. 

Hartogg.  And  white  stuff  like  that  is  rising  twenty  per  cent,  every 
year — I’m  proud  of  the  order,  sir,  and  I’ll  do  justice  to  it. 

[Exit  Hartogg,  l. 

Balderby  comes  forward  and  sits  at  table,  c. 

Bald.  Now  we  can  go  into  business.  I only  got  your  letter  from 
Warwickshire  on  Saturday.  Luckily  every  thing  was  ready,  so  if  you’d 
like  to  look  at  the  books 

Dunbar.  No,  Mr.  Balderby,  I'm  quite  content  to  remain  a sleeping 
partner : the  house  will  get  on  quite  as  well  without  me.  My  business 
to-day  is  purely  personal.  I’m  a rich  man,  but  I don’t  know  exactly  how 
rich,  and  I want  to  realize  a large  amount  of  read}^  money.  (Balderby 
boivs)  There  are  the  settlements  for  my  daughter’s  marriage  with  Arthur 
Lovell,  and  their  allowance  and  this  gew-gaw.  I mean  to  do  things 
handsomely.  I’m  not  a demonstrative  man,  Mr.  Balderby,  but  I love  my 
daughter,  (passes  his  handkerchief  over  his  face.) 

Bald.  No  doubt  of  that,  Mr.  Dunbar. 

Dunbar.  My  father’s  account  has  been  transferred  to  my  name,  I 
think  I 

Bald.  Last  September,  {rises  and  rings)  If  you’d  like  to  see  the^state 
of  it : it’s  all  ready. 

Enter  Messenger,  c. 

Send  Mr.  Austin  with  Mr.  Dunbar's  account.  [Exit  Messenger,  c. 
Mr.  Austin  is  an  invaluable  cashier. 


ACT  II. 


21 


Enter  Austin  with  b.oks^  Dunbar  bows  to  him,  c. — He  places  the  book  before 
him  open  at  a mark — Dunbar  rims  his  finger  down  to  the  total. 

Dunbar.  £137,926  17s.  2d.  How  is  this  money  invested  1 

Clem.  £50,000  in  India  stock,  about  £20,000  in  railway  debentures, 
most  of  the  rest  in  Exchequer  Bills. 

Dunbar.  They  can  be  realized  at  once. 

Bald.  Rather  a large  amount  to  draw  out  of  the  business ; (^rubbing 
his  hands  cheerfully')  but  I hope  we  can  afford  it. 

Dunbar.  You  will  hold  yourself  ready  to  cash  some  heavy  checks  of 
mine  in  the  course  of  the  week,  {rising.) 

Bald.  Certainly,  Mr.  Dunbar.  Is  that  all  I 

Dunbar.  All  at  present. 

Bald.  Then  I’ll  bid  you  good  morning,  {aside)  Short  but  sharp  and  to 
the  point.  Quite  like  business. 

Exit  Balderby,  c.,  Austin  takes  books  and  is  following, 

Dunbar.  Stay,  Mr.  Austin.  (Austin  down  books  and  pauses,  listening 
respectfully^  I want  to  arrange  about  an  annual  payment — not  my  own 
account.  Perhaps  you  will  have  no  objection  to  letting  the  money  pass 
through  you. 

Clem.  None  whatever,  sir,  if  you  will  let  me  know  the  amount  and  the 
person. 

Dunbar.  Two  hundred  pounds,  to  be  paid  quarterly  to  Miss  Margaret 
Wilmot. 

Clem.  Margaret  Wilmot ! 

Dunbar.  Or  Wentworth,  the  daughter  of  my  old  servant.  He  may  be 
said  to  have  died  in  my  service,  besides,  I owed  him  some  compensation 
for  an  early  and  involuntary  injury. 

Clem.  I know,  sir. 

Dunbar.  You  know  I You  know  my  early  relations  with  that  man — 
from  whom ! 

Clem.  From  his  daughter  herself ! I told  her  I was  sure  you  would 
acknowledge  her  claims  on  you. 

Dunbar.  You  only  did  me  justice.  You  know  her  well  then  ? 

Clem.  Very  well,  sir.  I am  deeply  interested  in  her.  We  are  engaged, 
sir. 

Dunbar.  Engaged ! I am  glad  of  it  from  my  heart — I congratulate 
you.  You  have  found  a treasure. 

Clem.  How  little  she  dreams  that  you  appreciate  her  so  truly^ 

Dunbar.  I do.  Heaven  knows  I do  ! Let  her  know  it. 

Clem.  She  thinks  you  hate  her. 

Dunbar.  Hate  her ! 

Clem.  At  least  that  you  avoid  her  in  a way  only  to  be  explained  by 
hate  or  fear. 

Dunbar.  She  is  wrong,  very  wrong.  I don’t  wish  to  see  her,  you  can 
understand  that.  But  I mean  well  by  her,  and  I shall  be  a happier  man 
to  know  her  happy.  Look  here,  Mr.  Austin,  the  management  of  our  In- 
dian Branch  is  vacant,  what  do  you  say  to  taking  it  I 

Clem.  Sir ! I never  dreamed  of  having  such  a chance. 

Dunbar.  You  would  take  her  with  you. 

Clem.  I fear  she  would  refuse,  she  has  set  her  heart  on  discovering  her 
father’s  murderer. 

Dunbar.  So  I’ve  heard,  but  she  must  not  waste  her  life  on  fruitless 
quest  j at  least,  let  her  know  of  this  offer,  and  assure  her,  do  assure  her, 


HENRY  DUNBAR. 


she  has  a friend  in  me.  Promise  me  to  satisfy  her  of  that — promise  me. 
I shall  not  be  easy  till  I know  you  have  succeeded. 

Clem,  {going).  I will  do  my  best  and  let  you  know  the  result,  (^going — 
aside)  He  means  what  he  says,  and  yet  this  morbid  unwillingness  to  meet 
her  face  to  face  ! [Exit  c. 

Enter  Messenger,  c. 

Messen.  Mr.  Carter ! 

Dunbar.  Carter  ? 

Messen.  The  famous  detective,  sir.  The  house  has  often  employed 
him  in  forgery  cases,  sir 

Dunbar.  Show  him  in. — {Exit  Messenger.) — I cannot  bear  this  much 
longer. 

Enter  Carter,  c. 

You  wished  to  see  me,  M 'arter?  Sit  down. 

Carter.  Thank  you,  Mi.  Dunbar.  It’s  about  that  man  that  was  mur- 
dered at  Winchester — W ilmot 

Dunbar.  Am  I never  to  hear  anything  but  that  name.  I beg  your  par- 
don. Go  on,  what  of  him  1 

Carter.  I was  thinking  of  going  down  to  the  spot  myself,  and  I 
thought  perhaps  you  might  like  to  meet  me  there.  You  see  the  County 
Constabulary  is  a slow  lot,  and  in  spite  of  your  £100  and  her  Majesty’s 
£100,  the  job  seems  to  hang  tire. 

Dunbar.  It  would  be  very  painful — still  if  I could  get  away  from  busi- 
ness— but  you  see  there’s  so  much  to  do  after  my  long  absence  in  India. 

Carter.  Naturally,  sir. 

B unbar.  Don’t  start  without  seeing  me.  Meantime  if  you  want  an  ad- 
vance for  preliminary  expenses 

Carter.  Well,  these  things  does  walk  into  money.  If  you  like  to  stand 
a tenner  or  two. 

Dunbar.  Take  this,  {gives  notes)  And  if  you  require  more,  command  my 
purse,  Mr.  Carter. 

Carter.  You  cant  say  fairer  than  that,  sir,  can  youl  {putting  up  notes) 
You  see  I’m  rather  sweet  on  the  job.  It  ain’t  so  much  the  reward, 
though  two  hundred  pounds  ain't  to  be  sneezed  at,  nor  the  man  himself 
— he  was  a bad  lot — but  it’s  his  daughter,  as  nice,  pretty-looking,  hard- 
working a girl  as  you’d  wish  to  see,  sir  ; she’s  set  her  heart  on  spotting 
the  parties — finding  on  ’em  out,  that  is. 

Dunbar.  What  is  her  idea  1 

Carter.  If  you’ll  not  mind  my  mentioning  it,  sir — in  course  there’s 
nothing  in  it — but  she've  the  idea  you  had  a hand  in  it.  {half  laughing .) 

Dunbar.  I ! Monstrous  ! And  she  accuses  me  } 

Carter.  Ah ! it  ain’t  agreeable  to  have  that  sort  of  thing  entered  in 
the  charge-sheet  agin  one,  is  it,  sir  1 ‘‘But  where’s  the  motive  1”  I says  to 
her:  “My  father’s  knowledge  of  his  secret she  says  to  me:  “Non* 
sense,”  I says  to  her,  “ Mr.  Dunbar’s  got  money  enough  to  buy  all  the  se- 
crets that  ever  was  kept : secrets  is  like  other  articles,”  I says,  “ they’re 
only  kep’  to  sell.”  Well,  I’ll  let  you  know,  before  I start.  Good  morn- 
ing, sir.  tExit  Carter,  c. 

Enter  Messenger  c.^  with  card — Henry  Dunbar’s  hach  is  to  c.  door. 

Messen.  {giving  card).  Major  Vavasour. 

Dunbar  I cannot  see  strangers — {ciiter  the  Major  quietly,  c.)  say  I’m 
engaged.  (Messenger  tu7'ns  to  go,  sees  the  Major,  and  exits  a^omshed.) 

Major  {coming  forward).  Don’t  say  so,  Mr.  Dunbar.  Don’t  cold  shoul- 


ACT  II. 


23 


der  an  old  friend,  who  has  had  rather  too  much  cold  shoulder  lately,  and 
is  anxious  to  return  to  hot  joints.  (Henry  Dunbar  7'ises^  and  fixes  his  eye 
upon  him — an  inward  struggle — he  drinks  a glass  of  water ^ and  remains  stand- 
ing and  sile^it)  I see  you  icraember  me. 

Dunbar.  Stephen  Vallance. 

Major.  Excuse  ne,  didn’t  you  get  that  card  ? Vavasour — Major  Va- 
vasour ; my  friends  at  the  corner — Field  Lane  Corner,  I mean — gave  me 
my  military  rank,  and  I treated  myself  to  the  family  addition.  If  one  in- 
sisted on  calling  people  by  their  true  names,  (significantly)  who  knows 
what  it  might  come  to.  But  I see  you  don’t  mean  to  cut  me. 

Dunbar.  I never  disown  an  old  acquaintance.  What  do  you  want  I 

Major.  Well,  not  to  put  too  fine  a point  on  it,  most  of  the  things 
you’ve  got — a good  coat  on  my  back,  a quiet  trap,  a recherche  dinner  with 
a bottle  of  sound  claret  to  it,  and  above  all,  a handsome  balance  at  my 
banker’s. 

Dunbar  {sighing ^'draws  check-book  to  him).  How  much  I 

Major.  Well,  as  you  are  kind  enough  to  propose  a check,  make  it  a 
thumper. 

Dunbar.  You  shall  not  find  me  stingy. 

Major.  No,  there  always  was  something  princely  about  you ; suppose 
we  say  a couple  of  thou 

Dunbar.  Two  thousand  pounds  ! at  once  ! 

Major.  Yes  it  seems  a lump  of  money,  especially  when  there’s  only 
two  hundred  pounds  offered  for  the  discovery  of  a murder  ; but  you  see 
I’ve  an  investment  or  two  in  my  eye— and  then,  (surveying  himself)  what 
the  builders  call  “ general  repairs  ” come  expensive.  (Dunbar  gives  him 
check — the  Major  examines  it  carefully)  To  bearer — that’s  right.  But  I 
"say,  Mr.  Dunbar,  honor  bright,  you  mean  business 

Dunbar.  I should  think  that  check  a pretty  good  proof  of  it. 

Major.  A splendid  beginning,  but  it’s  not  to  be  beginning,  middle,  and 
end,  is  it  I You  aint  a-going  to  come  the  gentle  bolt — an  early  mizzle 
across  the  Herring-pond,  eh,  friend  of  my  soul  I 

Dunbar.  Why  should  I run  away  1 

Major.  Just  what  I say  ! Why  should  a man  cut  landed  estates,  fine 
houses,  half  a million  of  money,  and  attached  friends  who  knew  him  in 
earlier  days  I Still,  I’ve  seen  a thing  or  two— that  little  diamond  game, 
you  know,  (signijica^itly)  If  this  attached  friend’s  re-appearance  has  any- 
thing to  do  with  such  an  idea — dismiss  it. 

Dunbar.  You  may  make  your  mind  as  easy  about  any  probability  of 
my  bolting  as  I do  about  any  chance  of  danger  from  you. 

Major.  Oh,  you’re  not  afraid  of  me,  then  1 

Dunbar.  You’re  no  fool,  and  you  know  the  story  of  the  Goose  with 
the  Golden  Eggs  ! No,  Vallance — Vavasour,  I mean — I’m  not  afraid  of 
you. 

Major.  Well,  you  know  best.  Now  to  cast  my  chrysalis,  and  emerge 
the  gilded  butterfly  of  the  summer  hour,  (takes  his  hand)  How  cold  your 
hand  is.  Re-action  from  India,  I suppose — ta,  ta,  au  7'eservoi7\  as  we  say 
in  the  classics  ! \Exit^  c. 

Dunbar.  There  must  be  an  end  of  this  or  an  end  of  me ! Another 
sword  hanging  over  my  head ! As  if  she  was  not  enough  ! I must  have 
Austin’s  decision,  (going — opens  c.  door^  but  starts  back  and  closes  it  hastily) 
Ha ! she  is  there,  in  close  conversation  with  Austin ! She  didn’t  see  me ! 
(rmgs.) 

Enter  Messenger,  c. 

Send  Mr.  Austin  to  me.  By  the  way,  is  there  no  way  in  and  out  of 
this  room  without  facing  the  draught  of  that  passage  I 


24 


HENKY  EUNBAK. 


Messbn.  There’s  the  private  door,  sir,  {pointing  to  mor,  r.)  leadiiit^ 
through  the  yard  into  Botolph’s  Lane.  [Exit  Messenger,  c.  ” 

Dunbar.  That  is  my  road.  Who  can  have  brought  her  here  7 Does 
Austin  share  her  suspicion '? 

Enter  Clement  Austin,  c. — Dunbar  takes  care  to  station  himself  so  as  not  to 
be  seen  from  the  passage  when  c.  door  opens, 

Clem.  I have  seen  Miss  Wentworth. 

Dunbar.  I know  you  have,  {sternly)  Was  it  you  who  brought  her  here, 
who  stationed  her  in  that  passage  % 

Clem.  It  was  at  her  earnest  desire. 

Dunbar.  So,  j’^ou  make  yourself  a party  with  her  in  dogging  your  €nii- 
ployer  ! Take  care,  Mr.  Austin.^ 

Clem.  I don’t  understand  you,  sir.  I assist  her  in  an  object  which 
seems  to  me  perfectly  natural.  She  wishes  to  urge  the  claims  that  flow 
from  her  father’s  wrongs. 

Dunbar.  You  have  explained  to  her  that  I admit  them  to  the  full  % 

Clem.  She  is  not  satisfled. 

Dunbar.  You  have  told  her  of  my  offer  of  this  Indian  appointment'? 

Clem.  She  refuses  to  accompany  me — she  urges  me  to  decline  the 
situation. 

Dunbar.  And  you  are  content  to  be  a puppet  in  her  hands ! Poor 
weak  fool.  ' 

Clem.  Mr.  Dunbar ! these  are  words  I will  not  put  up  with  from  any  < 
man. 

Dunbar  {inore  and  more  vehemently).  Quarrel  with  your  opportunity! 
Thrust  fortune  from  you ! Plot  against  your  employer — his  good  name,  , 
and  while  you  arQ  the  salaried  servant  of  the  house  ! - ^ 

Clem.  I will  not  touch  its  pay  from  to-day.  Mr.  Dunbar,  I give  the  ; 
firm  notice  to  provide  themselves  with  another  cashier.  [Exit,  c. 

Dunbar.  Come  back,  Mr.  Austin,  {going  after  him,  shrinks  from  the  door) 
He’s  gone  ! I cannot  encounter  her  pale,  sad  face  ! {rings)  There  is  noth- 
ing left  but  this. 

Enter  Messenger,  c.  ! 

Tell  Mr.  Balderby  I shall  not  be  back  to-morrow.  I am  going  down  to  * 
Maudsley  Abbey,  till  after  Miss  Dunbar’s  marriage.  i 

[Exit  hastily  by  private  dom\  \ 

Marg.  {at  door,  c.).  Let  me  go,  Clement  1 I will  see  him ! 

Enter  Margaret  and  Clement,  c. 

Marg.  Gone ! 

Mbssen.  Mr.  Dunbar,  miss  '?  Off*  down  to  Maudsley  Abbey. 

[Exit  Messenger,  c. 

Marg.  What  did  I tell  you,  Clement '?  Is  this  flight  or  is  it  not '?  He 
avoids  me.  I will  not  be  shaken  off*.  He  flies  from  London.  I will  fol- 
low him  to  Maudsley  Abbey ! 

Clem.  Nay,  Margaret,  his  early  wrong  to  your  father  was  heavy,  but 
that’s  near  thirty  years  ago. 

Marg.  {interrupting)  His  early  wrong  ! do  you  think  that  is  the  crime 
I mean '? 

Clem.  What  other  has  he  committed  ? 

Marg.  I may  speak  it  now — now  that  you  no  longer  eat  his  bread. 
{ivith  concentrated  earnestness)  Henry  Dunbar  is  my  father’s  murderer  ! 


END  OF  ACT  SECOND. 


ACT  III. 


25 


ACT  III. 

SCENE. — Eomn  in  Ilundsley  Abbey — Bicturesque  Elizabethan  room,  tapestry- 
hang  or  pannel.ed— window,  c.,  looking  on  an  autumnal  landscape — doors, 
R.  3 E.,  and  l.  1 and  3 E. — -fire-place,  r.,  antique  chairs,  tables  and 
cabinets,  heavy  crimson  draperies,  bottles  and  glasses  on  side  table,  l. — time, 
late  on  an  autumn  afternoon — Mary  discovered  at  window. 

Mary.  There  they  goes,  bless  ’em  ! Oh  wherever  have  I been  and  put 
that  old  shoe  % {finds  it  in  her  pocket  and  throws  it  out  of  window,  l.  u.  e.) 
Oh,  my,  if  I haven’t  hit  the  butler  right  atop  of  his  bald  head,  {calls  out 
of  window')  Beg  your  pardon,  sir,  I didn’t  go  to  do  it.  Oh,  my,  here’s 
master  ! [Exit  l.  1 e. 

, Enter  Dunbar,  l.  2 e. 

Dunbar  {goes  to  window  and  looks  out).  Gone  at  last ! I hope  she  will 
be  happy.  But  I musn’t  waste  time  moon-calfing.  I can’t  undo  the 
miserable  past,  but  the  future  is  mine  still — a dreary  one  at  best,  but  bet- 
ter than  this  life.  It’s  growing  too  dark  for  to-night’s  work,  {rings)  Yes, 
by  to-morrow  morning  I shall  have  put  the  sea  between  me  and  the  pry- 
ing eyes  that  make  my  life  here  one  long,  miserable  watch. 

Enter  Servant,  l.  u.  e. 

Lights  ! {sits  and  leans  his  head  on  his  hands)  Give  me  the  brandy.  Say  I 
do  not  wish  to  be  disturbed.  {Exit  Servant — drinks  brandy)  Now  for  my 
travelling  arrangements.  No  circular  notes,  no  courier  for  me,  nothing  to 
leave  the  milord  trail  behind  me.  {takes  out  leather  belt  divided  into  com- 
partments— lights  brought  by  Servant)  A relic  of  life  at  the  diggings — it 
must  carry  diamonds  instead  of  dust  now.  {takes  a little  canvas  bag  from 
his  pocket,  pours  diamonds  from  it  into  a paper  and  begins  to  put  them  into  the 
belt.) 

Etiter  Major  quietly,  r 3 e. 

Major.  A delicate  job  rather,  wants  a steady  hand.  (Dunbar  pauses  in 
the  act  of  filling  the  belt  and  looks  at  the  Major;  a diamond  or  two  drops.) 
You’ve  dropped  some. 

Dunbar.  I gave  orders  I was  not  to  be  disturbed. 

Major.  That’s  w'hy  I came  in  so  quietly,  {takes  hold  of  belt)  A remark- 
ably neat  thing  in  belts,  and  the  best  way  of  carrying  a large  amount  of 
ready  in  a small  compass  I ever  saw. 

Dunbar.  They  are  brilliants  I have  bought  for  a necklace  for  my 
daughter. 

Major.  Ah,  you  are  so  fond  of  your  child  ! {sits)  If  you  find  the  lot  too 
heavy  I should  be  happy  to  accommodate  you. 

Dunbar.  Thank  you. 

Major.  Well,  the  happy  couple  have  departed.  A roughish  night  for 
a honeymoon.  It’s  only  fit  for  social  enjoyment  indoors.  What’s 
that  passage  of  my  favorite  Cowper  I {recites,  suiting  the  action  to  the  words) 

Now,  stir  the  fire,  and  close  the  shutters  fast. 

Let  fall  the  curtains— wheel  the  sofa  round, 

And  let  us  welcome  peaceful  evening  in. 

By  the  w'ay,  isn’t  there  something  in  it  about  the  cup  that  cheers  but  not 
inebriates  waiting  on  each  I Suppose  we  have  in  the  cups  I 


26 


HENRY  DUNBAR. 


Dunbar.  I presume  you’d  prefer  Chamberlin  to  Congou,  (rin^s.) 

Major.  That  dear  Dunbar  ! Kemembers  my  old  tastes  to  a hair ! 

JSnter  Servant,  r.  u.  b. 

Dunbar.  A bottle  of  Burgundy. 

Major.  Two,  James  L [Exit  Servant,  r.  u.  e. 

Dunbar  {takes  a tumor  twv  around  the  room,  then  stops  suddenly).  Stephen 
Vallance,  how  long  is  this  to  last  ? 

Major.  While  the  present  is  so  cozy,  why  should  we  pry  into  the  fu- 
ture 1 

Dunbar.  Or  the  past  either  ! 

Major.  No,  it’s  seldom  pleasant  1 do  you  ever  lookback,  Mr.  Dunbar 

Dunbar.  As  little  as  I can. 

Enter  Servant  with  wine,  which  he  places  on  table,  ttien  exit  r.  u.  e . 

Major.  My  own  rule  ! But  there  are  times,  {thoughtfully,  his  tone  grad- 
ually deepening  into  sadness)  To-night,  for  instance — this  room  that  looks  so 
warm  and  snug  in  the  fire  light.  It  reminds  me  of  just  such  a room,  • 
some  thirty  years  ago,  in  an  old-fashioned  rectory,  with  a grey-headed 
couple  at  the  fire-side,  and  a lad  fresh  from  college,  with  his  head  full  of 
wine-parties,  and  cards,  and  the  odds,  sick  of  home  and  its  innocent 
pleasures  already.  Ah,  well,  let’s  wash  away  such  musty  memories — 
what’s  the  use  of  thinking. 

Dunbar.  Or  awakening  thought.  I can  remember  things  too,  things 
better  left  sleeping.  Stephen  Vallance,  you  should  know  I am  not  a man 
safe  to  provoke  too  far. 

Major.  Like  Othello — slightly  altered — one  not  easily  savage,  but,  be- 
ing riled,  nasty  in  the  extreme. 

Dunbar.  Drop  this  tomfoolery  ! Yet,  knowing  what  you  do,  you  dare 
to  provoke  me  thus  ! 

Major.  Provoke,  my  dear  Dunbar ! 

Dunbar.  To  dog  me  in  London ! 

Major.  Dog  I Oh,  hang  it ! 

Dunbar.  To  follow  me  down  here  ! 

Major.  Don’t  say  follow,  if  followers  ain’t  allowed. 

Dunbar.  To  intrude  upon  me  here  in  my  own  house ! 

Major.  Your  own  house  1 “ ’Twas  his,  ’tis  mine,  and  may  be  slave  to 
thousands.”  The  immortal  William  down  on  it  as  usual ! 

Dunbar.  There  must  be  an  end  of  this. 

Major.  Of  course  there  must,  as  of  all  things  here  below,  but  I mean 
to  keep  it  up  as  long  as  possible.  You’ll  be  happy  to  hear  I’ve  set  up  my 
tent  not  three  miles  from  your  park  gates. 

Dunbar.  You  have  1 

Major.  Yes,  you  behold  in  me  the  contented  proprietor  of  Woodbine 
Cottage, 'late  the  freehold  of  Admiral  Manders,  now  the  property  of  Col- 
onel Vallancey. 

Dunbar  {sneeringly).  Colonel  Vallancey  % 

Major.  Yes,  I’ve  got  my  step  since  I last  saw  you,  and  I’ve  removed 
into  another  family. 

Dunbar.  At  least  you  stick  to  the  V’s  ! 

Major.  Yes,  it  saves  the  necessity  of  altering  the  initials  on  one’s 
linen. 

Dunbar.  I did  not  know  you  had  any. 

Major.  Henry  Dunbar,  that  is  not  kind.  When  I first  met  you,  my 
early  friend,  I don’t  blush  to  own  I was  short  of  shirts ; but  as  soon  as  I 


ACT  III. 


27 


came  into  my  fortune  my  first  investment,  I give  you  my  honor,  was  in 
four  dozen  Eurekas,  first  quality,  fine  cambric  front  and  wristbands. 
Linen  is  my  pet  weakness,  {pulis  down  his  cuffs.) 

Dunbar.  Clean  cufls  may  help  to  dispense  with  clean  hands  occasion- 
ally, ell  1 

Major.  Ah,  a lesson  of  life  we  have  both  learned.  But  now  that  we 
are  neighbors  let  us  be  neighborly,  (tahes  the  bottle  and  sings.) 

Dunbar.  Well,  if  it  must  be,  let  us  drink  a long  and  a happy  tenancy 
of  Woodbine  Cottage,  {drinks)  Colonel  Vallancey,  your  health ! 

Major.  Mr.  Henry  Dunbar,  yours,  and  many  of  them  ! We  shall  meet 
often,  and  I trust  always  as  pleasantly.  I can’t  give  you  the  splendor  of 
your  own  Elizabethan  mansion,  but  in  my  little  box  you  will  at  least  find 
comfort  and  a certain  modest  elegance,  and,  talking  of  that,  my  kyind, 
my  generous  benefactor,  may  I remark  that  a freehold  investment,  how- 
ever modest,  walks  into  money,  and  that  furnishing,  simple  as  one’s 
tastes  may  be,  runs  expensive. 

Dunbar.  You  mean  you  want  to  bleed  me  again '? 

Major.  You  Anglo-Indians  are  so  quick  I 

Dunbar.  How  much  this  time  1 

Major.  Well,  the  last  prescription  did  me  a great  deal  of  good.  Sup- 
pose we  say,  the  draft  as  before. 

Dunbar.  There ! {gives  him  check)  And  now  you’ve  a rough  walk  be- 
fore you,  let  me  light  you  to  the  door. 

Major.  Don’t  trouble  yourself ! (Dunbar  takes  the  lamp.,  Major  takes 
it  from  him  and  puts  it  down  on  side  table)  It’s  flaring  up,  you  see,  as  you 
did  just  now ! {turns  down  light.) 

Dunbar  {at  window).  A dark  night ! {looking  out.) 

Major.  The  sort  of  a night  a man  wouldn’t  be.  very  safe  in,  if  any- 
body wanted  to  knock  him  on  the  head,  eh,  Mr.  Dunbar '? 

Dunbar.  You  are  in  no  such  danger  here,  if  that’s  your  meaning,  Val- 
lancey. 

Major  {ironically).  In  danger  from  you,  my  early  friend  ! Still,  if  any- 
body did  think  of  trying  it  on,  it’s  as  well  they  should  know  I always 
^arry  a young  man’s  best  companion — the  six  volumes  bound  in  one  ! 
{produces  a revolver f [Exit  Major,  r.  u.  e. 

Dunbar.  No  peace — no  escape  from  this  constant  terror  here  or  in 
London  ! And  now  a spy  on  guard  at  my  very  door  This  decides  me. 
{rings)  I will  not  sleep  another  night  in  England  ! 

Enter  Servant,  l.  1 e. 

Send  Mary  Madden  to  me.  {exit  Servant,  l.  1 e.;  Yes,  I can  trust  her, 
the  other  servants  might  chatter.  * 

Enter  Mary,  l.  1 e. 

Oh,  Mary,  I’ve  a sudden  call  to  Paris  to-night. 

Mary.  To  Paris,  sir  1 And  the  night  that  dark,  and  like  to  be  a gale 
afore  morning,  keeper  says ! 

Dunbar.  We  shall  have  a rough  crossing,  but  I must  face  it.  The 
business  is  urgent  and  secret.  I don’t  want  my  journey  talked  about, 
you  understand  7 

Mary.  Oh  nobody  shouldn’t  get  it  out  of  me,  sir,  not  if  they  cut  my 
tongue  out. 

Dunbar.  I know  you  are  trustworthy.  I want  you  to  pack  me  a small 
portmanteau  yourself,  and  order  the  brougham  to  be  ready  at  ten. 


28 


HENllY  DUNBAK. 


Mary.  That  I will,  punctual,  sir,  and  I’ll  say  you  was  going  out  for  a 
night  airing.  [Exit  l.  1 e. 

Dunbar.  Let  me  see : {looks  at  Bradshaw)  I can  catch  the  night  mail 
at  Maudsley,  and  still  be  in  time  for  the  tidal  train  to  Dover — and  yet, 
what’s  the  good  of  flight  1 I may  escape  the  gallows,  but  I can’t  fly 
from  myself,  my  own  thoughts.  Oh,  if  I could  but  sleep  away  the  time 

from  now  till  then Is  there  no  forgetfulness  for  me  in  this  I {takes 

up  wine)  In  brandy,  in  opium  7 — no  waking  but  what  is  full  of  blood  and 
bitterness — no  sleep  without  dreams  worse  even  than  waking  I By  day 
or  night,  in  the  darkness  or  the  broad  sunshine,  I see  him  before  me  al- 
ways. I set  my  brain — I brace  ray  nerves,  I thrust  the  hideous  thing 
from  me,  but  it  will  come  back — with  those  wide-open,  glassy  eyes  star- 
ing up  into  mine  ! {shudders')  Oh,  if  the  darkness  could  hide  him  from  me 
— could  hide  me  from  myself ! If  I could  sleep  and  never  wake  again  ! 
{he  lets  his  head  fall  on  his  hands,  and  sinks  down  at  the  table  in  an  attitude  of 
despair.) 

Enter  Margaret  Wentworth  cautiously  at  the  door,  she  listens,  first  for 
sounds  of  pursuit,  then  for  sounds  in  the  room,  then  softly  locks  the  door  be- 
hind her,  then  listens  and  peers  through  the  half -dark  of  the  room. 

Marg.  All  is  quiet,  he  sleeps  ! {steals  toward  him,  pressing  her  hand  on  her 
heart  as  if  to  still  its  beating)  He  can  sleep,  while  I am  here ! {she  draws 
nearer)  He  mutters  in  his  dreams  ! {she  listens  intently.) 

Dunbar  {in  sleep,  as  if  wrestling  with  a horrid  memory).  Cover  his  face  ! 
why  can’t  you  close  his  eyes,  some  of  you,  for  pity’s  sake  ! (Margaret 
shudders.) 

Marg.  Again ! {she  listens  ; he  mutters  indistinctly)  What  is  it  I 

Dunbar  {in  his  sleep).  Margaret ! ^ .«*• 

Marg.  My  name  ! {she  turns  up  the  lamp)  Awake  Henry  Dunbar,  awake, 
and  look  on  the  daughter  of  the  man  you  murdered,  {as  Wilmot  awakes 
and  springs  to  his  feet,  the  light  falls  on  his  face  ; he  gazes  as  if  bewildered^ 

Wilmot.  Margaret ! 

Marg.  Father  ! not  dead  ! {she  moves  toweirds  him  with  her  arms  held  out 
as  if  to  clasp  him,  then  suddenly  recoiling,  shrieks  and  falls  in  hysterics  aUhis 
feet.) 

Wilmot.  She’s  found  me  at  last ! All’s  over  now — better  so,  better  so 
— better  discovery  and  the  gallows,  than  this  daily  and  nightly  horror. 
Look  up,  Margaret,  my  poor  girl,  look  up  ! 

Marg.  {struggling  to  her  feet  and  gazing  .wildly  at  him).  Is  this  a dream  I 
Am  I mad  ? Who  is  this  I Father  ! {he  approaches  her,  she  shrinks  back) 
No,  no ! 

Wilmot.  Margaret ! {he  holds  oid  his  hands  to  her)  Come  to  me  ! 

Marg.  No,  no ! {shuddering)  There’s  blood  on  them  ! 

Wilmot  {looking  mournfully  at  her  and  then  at  his  hands).  There  is  ; blood 
which  time  nor  tears — your  tears  and  mine — can  ever  wash  out.  Don't 
look  so  at  me,  Margaret ! 

Marg.  But  they  call  you  Henry  Dunbar  7 I do  not  understand  ■ you 
sit  in  his  place,  this  house  is  his!  Oh,  father,  father,  there  is  blood  on 
everything  around ! {looks  round  shuddering — Dunbar  approaches)  Do  not 
come  near  me,  father,  let  me  die,  I will  say  nothing,  only  let  me  die ! 

Wilmot.  Margaret,  it’s  bad  enougli  with  me,  but  not  so  bad  as  you 
think.  I killed  him,  (Margaret  cowers  together)  but  it  was  no  foul  blow, 
no^planned  assassination — no  murder  ! 

Marg.  No  murder ! 

Wilmot.  No.  Unless  hot  blood,  and  blow  for  blow  in  sudden  quarrel 
be  murder,  this  was  none. 


ACT  IV. 


29 


^Iarg.  Father — {ivith  a shade  of  joy,  hut  checking  it)  think  before  whom 
you  are  speaking ! 

WiLMOT.  Before  my  own  child. 

Marg.  And  before  Heaven  ! Think  too,  the  deed  is  done  now  : no  lie 
can  help,  no  truth,  not  the  blackest,  can  make  it  blacker. 

WiLMOT.  Margaret  you  know  me  and  my  life  ! I have  blushed  before 
you — ^before  my  own  c aughter — often  : 1 have  been  silent  sometimes  be- 
fore you,  but  I have  never  lied  to  you. 

Marg.  {throivs  he  self  into  his  antis)  Never  ! Oh,  I can  kiss  those  poor 
sinful  hands — there  is  blood  on  them,  but  not  the  blood  of  murder. 
{again  recoiling  f rom  him)  But  since  then  you  have  lived  a lie  ! 

WiLMOT.  My  only  thought  was  how  to  hide  my  crime. 

Marg.  Oh,  would  to  Heaven  it  had  been  to  confess  it ! 

WiLMOT.  Amen!  but  love  of  life  is  strong,  Margaret,  and  the  devil  is 
ever  at  hand.  He  it  was  that  whispered  “ Why  not  take  the  dead  man’s 
name  and  place  V None  here  remembered  him,  he  was  a stranger  even  to 
his  child.  We  were  not  so  unlike — and  so,  the  devil  still  prompting,  I 
changed  clothes  with  the  dead. 

Maikj.  {she  shrinks  away,  from  him).  Horrible! 

WiLMOT.  You  know  the  rest.  What  you  can  never  know  is  the  hell 
my  life  has  been  since  then.  The  devil  helped  me  bravely  before  the  ju- 
ry, the  magistrates,  among  strangers,  but  he  left  me  so  soon  as  I was  alone. 
Then  came  the  horror  of  my  deed,  the  terror  of  detection,  the  stifling  of 
the  mask  that  must  be  worn  for  life,  or  torn  off  only  to  leave  my  face  bare 
under  the  gallow’S  ! {he  hides  his  face,  in  his  hands  and  shakes  with  the  violence 
of  his  emotion.) 

Marg.  The  gallows  7 Oh  no,  no  ! This  is  a case  for  Heaven’s  justice, 
not  man’s.  You  must  fly.  And  some  safe  retreat  abroad,  I will  join  you 
there. 

WiLMOT.  Needless,  needless.  There’s  too  short  a future  before  me 
that  I should  shun  it. 

Marg.  No,  no,  I will  watch  over  you,  give  you  warning  of  danger,  only 
promise  me  to  fly  to-night.  Heaven  will  grant  you  time  for  repent^ 
ance : it  will  come. 

WiLMOT  {sadkj).  It  to’come,  girl;  if  repentance  be  misery  unutterable, 
to  wake  with  the  wish  that  you  may  never  see  the  night,  to  clos«  your 
eyes  and  hope  they  may  never  open  on  the  morning ! 

Marg.  No,  father,  this  is  remorse,  not  repentance.  This  is  but  the  mis- 
ery of  guilt,  repentance  brings  the  prayer  that  guilt  may  be  forgiven. 
Father  we  will  pray  that  prayer  together ! {she  clasps  him  in  her  arms  and 
kneels  at  his  side,  trying  to  draw  him  to  his  knees.) 

END  ON  ACT  THREE. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  FIRST. — Same  as  the  last  scene. — Laura  and  Mary  discovered. 
Night  lamps. 

Laura.  Three  days  ago,  Mary ! and  never  out  of  his  room  since  7 
Mary.  Not  so  much  as  over  the  door-sill,  ma’am.  Why,  they’ve  never 
even  took  his  clothes  off,  not  so  much  as  the  belt  he  wears  about  him, 
all  full  of  little  ’ard  knobs — as  bad  as  vvearin’  a nutmeg  grater  around  his 
waist,  I should  say. 


80 


HENRY  DUNRAE. 


Laura.  Poor  father  ! How  iucky  it  was  we  were  witliin  telegraphic 
reach,  Mary,  or  we  might  not  liave  heard  of  the  accident  for  weeks ' 
Mary  Yes,  ma’am,  we’re  guided,  that  you  may  take  your  Bible  oath 
on,  which  when  your  pa  told  me  that  he  were  a-going  to  start  oft’ to  Paris 
all  of  a heap  hke,  I felt  something  was  a goin’  to  happen.  In  course  I 
didn  t know  it  was  the  train  a-goin’  to  bust  off  the  line,  but  somethintr  I 
knowed  It  was,  and  so  1 told  Eliza.  “ Eliza,”  I says,  ” mark  my  words.” 
I says  “ something’s  a-goin  to  ’appen,”  and  the  next  thing  I see  not 
eight  hours  afterwards,  was  master  brought  back  to  the ’all  door  in 
the  Maudsley  fly,  and  the  man  in  his  stable  boots,  for  all  the  world  like  a 
corpse,  only  groanin’,  and  as  such  he’ve  lied  ever  since. 

Laura.  Oh,  Mary,  how  I wish  I might  go  to  him.  He  might  love  me 
now  now  that  he  is  weak  and  helpless,  and  wants  tender  nursing. 


Enter  Lovell,  r.  u.  e. 

Don’t  you  think  I might  go  to  him  7 
Lovell.  No,  darling,  Doctor  Dean  insists  on  perfect  quiet,  or  he  can- 
not answer  for  the  consequences.  Under  any  excitement  he  m\<rht  sink 
rapidly.  ® 

Laura.  My  poor  father  ! 

Lovell.  The  notion  that  he  is  watched  iriitates  him.  I promised  him  . 
we  would  all  retire  ; so  come,  darling,  you  must  obey  orders. 

Laura.  Obey  orders,  and  not  four  days  married  ! {he  kisses  her.) 

Mary  And  I m that  tired,  ma’am  I’m  a-droppin’  off  on  my  legs  like  a 
night  cab  oss.  ^ 

[Exeunt  Arthur,  leading  Laura  tenderly  l.  2 e.^  Hxky  follcrwing.  ’ 

Enter  Henry  Dunbar,  r.  u.  e.,  slowly  and  with  difficulty  he  gropes  his  umy  \ 
towards  the  writing-table^  supporting  himself  by  the  furniture.  ^ 

\ 

• Alone  at  last ! I cannot  lie  there  and  think — and  yet  solitude  ‘ 

IS  better  than  society ; I must  write  to  Margaret,  if  I can  guide  the  pen  ' 
to  tell  her  of  the  accident  that  stayed  my  flight — that  I am  lying  here  a j 
prisoner,  crippled,  crushed,  body  and  soul ! {he  gets  to  a chair  and  sinks  in-  i 
to  it — takes  the pe:i^  but  pauses  ere  writing)  She  will  come  to  me,  to  comfort  ^ 
my  loneliness,  to  help  me  wrestle  with  my  remorse,  give  me  the  courao-e  1 
perhaps,  to  face  the  terrors  of  retribution,  (shudders)  It  has  never  b^en  1 
out  of  my  thoughts  as  I’ve  been  lying  there.  The  great  black  beam  the  i 
dangling  chain,  the  white  faces  of  the  crowd  all  looking  up— and  not  one  ■ 
pitiful— and  their  roar  of  execration  as  I step  out  on  to  the  scaffold ! 
{shudders^  low  knocking  at  the  window — Dunbar,  terror-stricken^  strugg  es  to  his  j 
feet,  and  stands  aghast,  with  parted  lips,  trembling  and  listening)  Hark  ! who’s  ' 
there  I i 

^ Marg.  (without,  faintly,  hut  in  a voice  of  agonizing  earnestness).  Let  me  ' 
m ! For  pity’s  sake  let  me  in  ! • j 

Dunbar.  Margaret ! (he  makes  his  way  to  the  window,  not  without  difficulty,  ^ 
and  opens  it,)  ■ 

•i 

Enter  Margaret,  haggard,  dishevelled,  her  dress  disordered,  no  bonnet,  a shawl  5 
draped  about  her,  , 

Marg.  Father!  Thank  Heaven  you  are  up  and  about. 

Dunbar.  What  brings  you  here  at  such  an  hour  as  this  I (Margaret, 
breathless  and  confused,  and  speaking  with  d[fficidty,  as  if  she  could  scarce  com- 
pose her  thoughts  to  frame  words,  supports  herself  by  grasping  a chair.) 

Marg,  Danger!  Danger  to  you!  I've  been  running.  There’s  not  a 


ACT  lY. 


31 


moment  to  be  lost — not  a moment.  They'll  be  here  directly.  I feel  as 
if  they  had  been  close  behind  me  all  the  way  ! There  is  not  a moment 
— not  a moment ! 

Dunbar.  I cannot  fly,  Margaret ; that  accident ! 

Marg.  I saw  it  in  the  papers ; that’s  why  I came  back  here  from  Win- 
chester. 

Dunbar.  From  Winchester  1 (in  terror^  What  has  happened  there  . 
Why  are  you  so  haggard  and  worn  1 

Marg.  Oh,  father,  I have  not  known  one  hour’s  peaceful  sleep  since 
that  night.  For  the  last  two  nights  I have  not  slept  at  all.  I have  been 
on  the  railway,  walking  from  place  to  place,  till  I could  drop  at  your 
feet ! I want  to  tell  you,  but  my  head  is  confused,  and  the  words  won’t 
come  somehow,  (she  points  to  her  parched  lips^  makes  last  effort  to  speakj  but 
reels,  and  is  about  to  fall ; Dunbar  suppen'ts  het'  and  gives  her  brandy.) 

Dunbar.  There — there,  my  poor  darling,  you  are  better  now. 

Marg.  You  must  leave  this  house  directly.  They  will  be  here  to  look 
for  you — Heaven  knows  how  soon. 

Dunbar.  They  who  '? 

Marg.  Carter,  the  detective,  and — and  Clement  Austin. 

Dunbar.  Austin  ! your  lover?  you  have  not  betrayed  me,  Margaret. 

Marg.  I ! oh,  father  ! 

Dunbar.  No,  no,  forgive  me  ! But  what  brings  them  here — they  have 
no  proof. 

Marg.  No  proof?  Oh,  father,  you  don’t  know — you  don’t  know — 
they’ve  been  to  Winchester.  It  was  my  doing — I urged  Carter  and 
Clement.  I did  not  know,  then.  But  I went  after  them.  I watched 
them,  and  a^l  they  did — unseen — in  the  streets — down  through  the  mea- 
dows— in  that  wood,  (she  shudders)  They  went  straight  to  a pond,  and 
began  dragging  the  water. 

Dunbar.  Dragging  the  water  ? 

, Marg.  I did  not  know  then  what  they  wanted  to  find. 

Dunbar,  (with  feverish  eagerness)  But  did  they  find  it  ? 

Marg.  Yes  ; a bundle  of  soddened  and  discolored  rags ! 

Dunbar.  Dunbar’s  clotftes ! his  name  was  on  them  ! 

Marg.  I waited  for  no  more — I ran  all  the  way  to  Winchester,  to  the 
station ; I took  the  first  train  to  London,  the  night  mail  to  Maudsley,  I 
ran  hither! 

Dunbar.  They  know  all  by  this  time.  They  will  be  here  soon  1 Well, 
let  them  come,  better  it  should  end  at  once. 

Marg.  No,  father,  no.  It  is  not  that  you  may  escape  the  penalty  of 
your  deed.  Oh,  as  if  you  could  do  that ! But  I would  leave  your  pun- 
ishment in  Heaven's  hand,  not  man’s.  You  must  fly  1 

Dunbar.  I cannot ; this  accident.  Margaret,  I am  a doomed,  perhaps, 
a dying  man.  I have  the  doctor’s  word  for  it.  But  I feel  it  here  (puts 
his  hand  to  his  heart)  without  that 

Marg.  Oh,  no,  no ! you  can  walk,  (he  shakes  his  head)  Only  as  far  as 
the  stables  ? I can  saddle  a horse : you  may  reach  the  station  unseen  ; 
which  is  the  way  to  the  stables  ? 

Dunbar.  By  that  window  to  the  right,  (points  to  window,  r.  2 e.) 

Marg.  (taking  lamp)  Wrap  yourself  up  warm,  father.  I will  be  back 
directly.  {Exit  r.  2 e. 

Dunbar.  I will  make  a last  effort  for  her  sake,  poor  girl.  After  all, 
life  is  sweet,  and  repentance — repentance  ! Oh,  if  I were  sure  that  would 

come — such  repentance  as  the  spoke  of that  comes  by  praying  for, 

that  brings  the  hope  to  be  foj-given ! If  misery  can  bring  that  hope,  it 
should  come  to  me.  (puts  his  hand  to  his  breast)  That  pain  again,  like  a 
knife  in  my  heart ! Shall  I have  strength  to  sit  a horse,  I wonder  ? 


32 


HENKY  DUNBAE. 


Re-enter  Margaret,  r.  u.  e. 

Marg.  Now  let  me  help  you  'with  your  coat,  {helps  him  on  with  loose 
coat)  The  horse  is  saddled,  I’ll  assist  you  to  mount.  Come,  quick  and 
silently ! 

Dunbar.  But  you,  my  girl — they  must  not  find  you  here. 

Marg.  You  did  not  think  I would  leave  you,  father^  I will  lead  the 
horse  or  hold  by  the  stirrup,  it’s  only  three  miles  to  tne  station.  Never 
fear  me,  1 11  not  faint : look  how  strong  I am. 

Dunbar.  Margaret,  to  go  with  me  is  to  couple  yourself  with  shame 
and  danger,  on  a road  that  leads  only  to  death,  one  way  or  other. 

Marg.  The  more  need  of  my  arm  to  stay  you  along  that  road,  {plead- 
ing passionately  with  him)  Let  me  go  with  you,  father!  There  is  nothing 
for  me  in  all  the  world  except  the  hope  of  forgiveness  for  you.  I want 
to  he  with  you,  I do  not  want  you  to  be  alone  with  your  own  thoughts  ! 
Father,  I will  go  with  you  1 {she  clasps  him  in  her  arms;  they  exeunt  at  win- 
dow.) 

Enter  Laura,  in  a wrapper^  l.  2 e. 

Laura.  I thought  i heard  voices  1 I must  have  been  dreaming  ! No, 
I couldn’t  have  been  dreaming,  for  I’ve  never  been  asleep,  I’m  quite  sure 
of  that,  {goes  up  to  door  o/ Dunbar’s  room^  r.  u.  e.)  All’s  quiet.  Is  papa 
asleep,  I wonder  I The  door’s  ajar  : there’s  a lamp  burning  : I’ve  a good 
mind  to  peep  in.  {pushes  door  a little  open)  He  must  be  asleep  1 {goes  in  a 
little  further)  The  bed’s  empty  I What  does  this  mean  I Gone ! {calls) 
Arthur ! ^ 

Enter  Lovell,  followed  hy  Mary. 

Lovell.  Laura,  why  are  you  here,  what’s  the  matter  ? 

Laura.  Papal  he’s  not  in  his  bed,  not  in  his  room,  not  here  1 

Lovell.  Not  in  his  room  7 {enters  Dunbar’s  room  hastily.) 

Laura.  Oh,  Mary,  Avhat  can  have  happened  1 

Mary  I shouldn’t  wonder,  ma’am,  if  he’s  been  took  delirious  and  gone 
off*.  [hnoching  without,  l. 


Re-enter  Lovell,  r.  u.  e. 

Laura  {starts).  Hark  ! {going,  Lovell  stops  her.) 

Lovell.  Go,  Mary,  see  who  that  can  be,  at  this  hour. 

[Exit  Mary,  r.  2 e. 

Laura.  If  it  should  be  some  terrible  tidings  of  papa ! 

Lovell.  Compose  yourself,  my  darling  ; we  must  rouse  the  servants. 

Enter  , followed  by  Carter  and  Austin,  r.  2 e. 

Mary.  These  gentlemen — {gives  cards)  they  say  they  must  see  Mr.  Dun- 
bar, which  I ve  told  them  he’s  confined  to  his  bed,  leastways,  he  were. 

Lovell  {af  er  looking  at  cards).  Mr.  Carter,  Mr.  Clement  Austin,  the  cash- 
ier at  the  bank!  {to  Austin.) 

Carter.  Yes,  we’re  here  on  very  important  bank  business.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Lovell,  I believe  7 {bowing)  We  must  insist,  I’m  afraid,  early  as  it  is, 
on  knocking  up  Mr.  Dunbar. 

Lovell.  I wish  you  could  find  him,  sir,  or  we  either. 

Carter.  What  do  you  mean  7 

Lovell.  He  is  gone ! ^ 

Carter.  Gone  I What  d’ye  mean,  gone  7 {stamps  his  foot.) 


ACT  IT. 


alS 

Lovell.  Disappeared  from  his  room  there,  where  we  left  him  ii\  bed, 
from  the  effects  of  the  railway  accident. 

Carter.  Disappeared ! {goes  into  bedroom  r.  u.  e.) 

Clem.  My  friend  is  a little  abrupt,  but  he  has  a strong  motive  for  find- 
ing Mr.  Dunbar.  We  read  in  the  papers  that  the  accident  was  serious. 

Laura.  Oh,  most  serious. 

Lovell.  I had  no  idea  he  could  have  left  his  bed. 

Mary.  Ah,  please  sir,  nobody  knows  what  delirium  will  do.  I 
know,  ’cos  once  I see  a gent  in  a lodging  house  before  I came  to  Miss 
Wentworth’s,  he  had  what  they  call  the  trimmins  ! and  he  were  that  ram- 
pagious— 

Re-enter  Carter,  r.  u.  e. 

Carter.  Gone,  sure  enough  ! how  was  he  dressed  1 

Lovell.  As  at  the  time  of  the  accident : he  would  not  allow  us  to  un- 
dress him. 

Carter  {impatiently).  Don’t  argue,  answer  me,  what  had  he  on  1 

Lovell.  A black  suit.  We  removed  his  loose  travelling  coat. 

Mary.  And  he’ve  put  it  on  again,  leastways,  it  was  here  last  night  and 
it’s  gone  now  from  that  blessed  chair. 

Carter  {cutting  her  short,  to  Lovell).  What  was  that  coat  1 

Lovell.  Brown  cloth  lined  with  fur.  I must  give  orders  to  the  ser- 
vants to  search  the  shrubberies,  the  park. 

Carter  {aside).  That  won’t  do  any  harm,  but  I think  you’d  better  trust 
to  me.  Can  he  have  gone  to  the  office  1 {to  Lovell)  Would  you  let  me 
see  Mr.  Dunbar’s  body  servant  alone  for  a few  minutes. 

Lovell.  We  will  send  him  to  you.  Come,  Laura. 

Laura.  I am  so  terrified.  Oh,  sir,  do  you  think  there  is  any  fear  of 
suicide  1 

Carter.  I hope  not,  ma’am,  {aside)  It  would  be  cheating  Calcraft. 
Leave  me  to  look  for  him,  me  and  Mr.  Austin,  here.  Oh,  make  your 
mind  easy,  ma’am,  if  he  is  to  be  found.  Fit  find  him. 

Laura.  Oh  thank  you,  thank  you  ! [Exit  Laura,  l.  2 :fe. 

Carter  {to  Mary  who  is  going  after  Laura).  Stop,  you  girl ! 

Mary.  Bless  the  man,  how  you  snap  one’s  head  off. 

Carter.  How  long  does  this  burn  I {points  to  lamp.) 

Mary.  Ten  hours,  sir. 

Carter  {pours  out  oil  from  lamp  into  grate).  When  was  it  filled  last 
night  1 

Mary.  Quarter  afore  seven,  sh*,  which  I done  it  myself,  because 
Eliza 

Carter  {interrupting  her).  It  must  have  been  burning  till  past  four,  he 
hasn’t  more  than  half  an  hour’s  start  of  us ; come,  Mr.  Austin,  never 
fear,  we’ll  run  into  him  yet ! [Exit  r.  2 e. 

Mary  {at  fire-place).  Oh,  lud  a mercy,  here’s  a mess  ! {sets  herself  to 
'i' eon  grate — closed  in  by 

SCENE  SECOND. — Entrance  Hall  of  Woodbine  Cottage — Knocking  at  entrance 
door,  L.  1 K. 

Enter  the  Major,  r.,  in  his  dressing-gown  and  slippers,  as  if  disturbed. 

Major.  Not  five  o’clock,  and  a knocker  solo  that  would  do  credit  to 
the  biggest  Jeames  in  Belgravia!  This  is  the  quiet  of  the  country! 
Well,  the  days  are  dull  enough.  When  they  do  get  up  a row,  it’s  in  the 
iniddle  of  the  night,  apparently,  {knock)  And  that  exemplary  maid  of 
iiine  can  sleep  through  all  this  ! What  a privilege  ! {knocking  again)  Oh, 


UKNKY  DUJVBAlt. 


u 

hang  it,  they  evidently  won't  take  no  answer,  {knock)  Now  then,  do  you 
mean  to  knock  the  door  down  7 {exit  as  if  to  open  the  door  and  returns  with 
Margaret,  l.  u.  e. — the  Major  astonished)  A lady ! and  in  a state  of 
excitement ! 

Marg.  I am  Margaret  Wilmot ! 

Major.  Joe’s  daughter  ! (^the  Major  shows  surprise.) 

Marg.  My  father  is  outside,  he  has  left  the  Abbey — Carter  is  in  pur- 
suit of  him. 

Major.  What ! Harry  has  found  out  the  double  'I  Serve  him  right ! 
And  you’ve  brought  him  here  7 

Marg.  He  has  fainted — you  will  not  refuse  him  slielter — an  old  friend 
of  yours — a dying  man  perhaps,  and  justice  on  his  track.  You  would 
not  shut  your  door  against  him  ? 

Major.  Poor  devil ! 

Marg.  I beg,  I implore  you,  to  give  him  shelter  for  a little  while. 

Major.  Poor  girl ! {crosses  l.)  Major,  it’s  a weakness — there  is  such  a 
thing  as  being  accessory  after  the  fact ; but  when  did  lovely  woman  in 
distress  appeal  to  you  in  vain  1 I’ll  take  him  in.  [Uxtt  Major,  l. 

Marg.  Oh,  thanks,  thanks  ! If  we  can  but  rest  here  till  he  gains 
strength,  or,  if  death  must  overtake  him,  that  it  may  be  in  my  arms,  not 
in  a prison  cell,  not  under  the  shadow  of  the  scaffold  ! 

Rc-cnier  Major,  l. 

Major.  I’ve  taken  him  into  my  room  ; can  you  put  up  the  horse  I 
The  stable’s  at  the  back  of  the  house  I 

Marg.  Yes,  our  arrival  must  not  be  talked  of ; you  go  to  him  till  I re- 
turn. Oh,  sir,  Heaven  will  reward  you  for  this.  [Exit  r. 

Major.  Heaven,  eh  I I don’t  keep  an  account  at  that  bank,  {showing 
the  belt  as  worn  by  Wilmot)  The  belt  with  those  diamonds — I relieved  him 
of  it — humanity,  like  virtue,  is  its  own  reward,  {secretes  belt)  If  I could 
hook  it  with  this,  my  fortune  would  be  made  in  one  coup. 

Re-enter  Margaret,  r. 

Major.  I’ve  been  reflecting.  Your  distress  inspires  my  warmest  sym- 
pathy ; Carter  don’t  know  your  father  ; suppose  we  change  clothes.  I’ll 
make  him  up  a picture  of  venerable  respectability.  1 could  start  by  the 
train,  and  so  draw  off  the  dogs,  while  he  takes  my  place  here. 

Marg.  Oh,  bless  you  for  the  thought.  Be  quick,  and  make  the  change 
— I’ll  watch  here.  Oh,  how  shall  v;e  ever  repay  you ! 

Major  {fastening  the  belt).  The  luxury  of  doing  good  is  enough  for  me  ! 

[Exit  Major,  r.,  Margaret  follows  in  thankfidness  to  the  wing. 

Clement  Austin,  l. 

Clem.  The  door  open  at  this  hour  ! Carters  suspicions  may  be  W’ell 
founded.  (Margaret  turns  and  sees  him)  Ah,  Margaret ! 

Marg.  Discovered  ! and  by  him  ! 

Clem.  At  last ! my  poor  darling  ! {approaches  her^  she  waves  him  back.) 

Marg.  No,  Clement,  there  is  an  end  of  love  between  us.  Would  there 
was  an  end  of  life  as  well.  I learnt  the  worst  that  night.  I dared  not 
meet  you  again,  with  the  blood  stain  of  that  secret  on  my  soul.  I fol- 
lowed you  to  Winchester. 

Clem.  Then  it  was  no  delusion ; that  veiled  figure  in  the  street,  that 
shadow  amongst  the  trees  ! 

Marg.  It  was  I,  Clement,  watching  that  I might  warn  my  father.  I 


ACT  IV^ 


have  warned  him — I have  brought  him  hither.  He  is  in  this  liouse,  a 
dying  man ! Clement,  you  will  not  denounce  him  1 

"^Clem.  Margaret ! you  wring  my  heart.  Must  I screen  a murderer 

Marg.  No,  Clement,  he  is  no  murderer  ! Henry  Dunbar  died  by  his 
hand,  but  from  a blow’  in  sudden  quarrel,  roused  by  bitter  taunts  and 
sore  provocation.  It  is  true,  Clement,  I have  never  lied  to  you  yet,  and 
w^ould  not  now,  not  even  for  a father’s  life. 

Clem.  But  there  is  Carter — I am  here  by  his  orders — he  will  follow’  me 
directly  to  search  this  house. 

Marg.  And  he  will  take  him  from  me!  Will  give  him  up  to  the  law’, 
to  a prison  1 and  now,  now’  that  he  is  dying  ! Oh,  Clement,  leave  him  to 
Heaven’s  mercy  ! Let  him  die  with  one  loving  face  near  him — one  voice 
of  comfort  and  compassion  in  his  ears  ! Do  not  tear  him  from  me — do 
not — do  not ! 

Clem.  Margaret,  I w’ill  stand  aloof ; I will  not  lift  hand  or  voice 
against  your  father. 

Marg.  I knew"  I might  trust  you,  Clement  I (a  whistle  heard  off.) 

Clem.  Hark!  Carter’s  signal! 

Marg.  Detain  him  here  as  long  as  you  can.  Lives  may  hang  on  min- 
utes now’.  Yes,  Clement,  I knew’  I might  trust  you  ! [Exit^  r.  1 e. 

Enter  Carter,  l.  1 e. 


Carter.  Door  open ! 

Clem.  I left  it  open  behina  me. 

Carter.  You  got  in  without  trouble  1 (Austin  mds)  No  W’aiting,  eh  1 
Oh,  there  w’as  some  one  up,  then  1 (Austin  nods)  Who  I 

Clem.  A girl. 

Carter.  At  five  1 That  ain’t  natural ! I must  see  her  and  her  mas- 
ter. 

Clem.  She  has  gone  to  let  him  know  of  our  visit. 

Carter.  Him  "I  I’ve  set  one  of  the  Abbey  grooms  to  watch  the  back 
door.  I’ve  left  Tommy  Tibbs  at  the  station  w ith  a description,  and  now 
you  and  me  w’ill  have  the  cream  of  the  job  to  ourselves  here. 

Clem.  Look  here.  Carter,  you  must  look  for  no  further  help  from  me 
in  this  business. 

Carter.  Mr.  Austin  ! What,  after  we’ve  worked  so  nicely  together  1 
I began  to  think  you  w’as  takin’  a pleasure  in  it. 

Clem.  Taking  pleasure  in  hunting  a man  down  ! 

Carter.  No,  Mr.  Austin,  but  in  spotting  a murderer.  The  old  saying 
is  ‘ murder  will  out,”  but  how  would  it  be  without  a branch  of  the  force, 
the  metropolitan,  I mean,  to  start  it  1 No,  Mr.  Austin,''!  don’^^  say  but 
what  I like  my  profession,  but  dooty  ain’t  the  less  dooty  because  it’s 
pleasure  too,  is  it,  now  1 

Clem.  Do  you  do  your  duty.  If  Joseph  Wilmot  murdered  Henry 
Dunbar  lie  must  pay  the  penalty.  But  I have  told  you  he  is  the  father 
of  the  woman  I love.  It  is  not  for  me  to  help  to  bring  him  to  the  gal- 
lows. 

Carter  Ah,  I forgot  the  petticoat.  They  always  turn  up  somewheres, 
and  mostly  troublesome.  But  I must  see  the  people  here. 

Clem.  Here  comes  the  servant  with  a message  from  her  master. 

Enter  Margaret,  r.  1 e.,  roughly  dressed  as  a slovenly  servant  of  all  work, 
with  her  face  tied  up  as  from  faceache : she  affects  surprise  at  sight  of 
Carter. 


Marg.  Hallo,  here’s  two  on  ’em! 


86 


HENRY  DUNRAIt. 


Carter.  So,  you  are  up  early,  my  lass  1 

Marg.  Couldn’t  get  a wink  of  sleep  all  last  night,  please  sir,  ’cos  of  the 
toothache.  Oh,  do  you  know  what’s  good  for  itl 

Carter.  Well  I 'at'e  heard,  filling  your  mouth  with  cold  water,  and  siU 
tin  on  the  hob  till  it  boils. 

Marg.  Oh  lawk  a massy,  why  it  would  scald  me  to  death  ’ 

Carter  (aside).  She  seems  green  enough. 

Marg  Oh  please  sir,  was  you  with  this  gentleman  7 
Carter  Yes,  T was. 

Marg  Then  master  will  see  you  in  tln»  parlor.  But  oh,  please,  gen- 
tlemen don’t  go  to  aggrivat#  him,  for  he's  in  such  a worry  at  being  disturb- 
ed so  early. 

Carter.  Ah,  a bad  temper,  has  he 
Marg.  Oh,  hawful ! 

Carter.  And  he  don’t  like  being  told  lies,  does  he  7 
Marg.  Oh,  I durstn’t  try  him  with  them,  sir,  that  I dursn’t. 

Carter.  Then  you  look  here : if  he’s  bad,  I’m  wus,  a hundred  times, 
when  people  try  me  with  ’em : now  you  know.  Who’s  been  here  this 
morning  7 

Marg.  Him,  sir. 

Carter.  No,  before  him. 

Marg,  Nobody,  sir.  (eer^  rapidly)  One  would  think  five  o’clock  was 
quite  early  enough,  if  I ’adn’t  been  up  along  o’  my  tooth,  a poor  ’ard- 
working  girl,  that’s  got  every  blessed  thing  on  her  hands,  how’s  she  to 
stand  being  knocked  up  at  five  o’clock  in  the  morning  I should  like  to 
know,  and  being  bullyragged  into  the  bargain  7 

Carter  (trying  to  stop  her).  There,  there,  there,  I don’t  want  to  set  the 
tap  going  : there  (impatiently)  hold  your  jaw,  girl,  and  show  us  into  your 
master.  f Exeunt  r.  1 e.,  Margaret  stUl  chattering. 

SCENE  THIRD. — Interior  of  the  Major’s  sitting-room — Broad^  old-fashioned 
window^  c.,  pannelled  walls ^ low  ceiling^  cupboards,  doors  r.  and  l.,  warm 
curtains,  old-fashioned  furniture — Wilmot  discovered  in  easy  chair,  l., 
made  up  with  white  hair  and  moustache,  smoking  a meerschaum,  in  the 
Major’s  dressing-gown  and  slippers — Carter  and  discovered,  R. 

Wilmot.  Two  intrusions  in  one,  damme  ! Well,  gentlemen,  this  is  cool, 
I must  say,  infernally  cool,  knocking  a man  up  in  his  own  house  at  five  in 
the  morning  ! What  is  it  all  about  7 

Carter.  We’ve  come  to  make  inquiry  about  Mr.  Dunbar,  of  Maudsley 
Abbey,  who  has  been  missing  since  four  o’clock  this  morning.  (Wilmot’% 
meerschaum  moves  in  his  mouth,  Carter  watches  sharply.) 

Wilmot.  Gone  ! Why  I thought  the  poor  fellow  couldn’t  leave  hiii 
room — his  bed,  in  fact — thanks  to  that  railway  smash  7 Ah,  those  infer- 
nal railways  ! Damme,  sir,  we  shall  see  no  good  there  till  they  string  up 
a director  or  two.  But  if  he  has  gone,  I suppose  he  was  free  to  go,  eh  7 
As  free  as  you  to  come  here.  This  is  a free  country,  ain’t  it,  eh  7 Free 
and  easy,  I should  say,  infernally  free  and  easy  ! 

Carter.  Why  you  see,  colonel,  I’m  a private  detective  come  by  Mr. 
Lovell’s  wish  to  look  after  the  poor  gentleman.  They’re  afraid  the  acci- 
dent’s damaged  him  here  (touches  head  ) We've  searched  the  park  and  he 
ain’t  there,  and  the  lodges  and  he  ain’t  there,  and  your  ^cottage  coines 
next,  and  you’re  an  old  friend,  so  p’raps  you’d  not  mind  our  searching 
here  7 

Wilmot.  Rather  cool,  before  six  in  the  morning,  but  just  as  you  please 
Betty — (coils)  meanwhile  I’ll  turn  in  again,  if  you’ve  no  objection. 


ACT  IT. 


37 


Enter  Margaret,  l. 

Betty,  show  these  gentleman  every  room  in  the  house,  {aside  to  her)  mind, 
if  you  don’t  hold  your  tongue  I’ll  make  you  pay  for  it.  (Carter,  who  has 
hem  looking  at  the  door  turns  round  as  if  he  caught  the  last  aside.)  Good  morn- 
ing, gentlemen.  [Exit  Wilmot,  slowly,  and  helping  himself  hy  the  furniture. 

Marg.  {opening  cupboard,  r.).  If  you’d  like  to  look  in  here,  gentlemen, 
here’s  where  the  colonel  keeps  his  ’bacca-boxes,  and  pipes,  and  things. 

Carter.  No,  thank  you.  Miss  Innocence.  Just  you  come  here ! {brings 
her  forward)  Ah,  you’re  an  artful  young  hussy,  and  no  mistake,  and  that 
toothache’s  a judgment  on  you.  Now,  look  here,  what  was  that  your 
master  told  you  to  hold  your  tongue  about  1 

Marg.  {twists  her^ apron).  Oh,  please,  sir,  master  didn’t  say  nothing,  sir, 
only  I was  to  show  you  round,  sir. 

Carter.  Oh,  didn’t  say  nothing,  didn’t  he  I We’ll  see  what  the  judge 
says  when  you’re  had  up  before  him  for  wilful  perjury,  which  it’s  trans* 
portation  for  life  in  a young  female. 

Marg.  Oh,  sir,  I’m  so  mortal  ’feared  o’  master,  he’s  that  violent ! Why, 
if  the  taters  ain’t  done  to  his  liking  he’ll  grumble  about  them  quite  civil 
like  at  first,  and  then  he’ll  work  hisself  up,  and  he'll  shy  them  taters  at 
you  one  arter  another,  and  his  language  gets  wus  with  every  tater. 

Carter.  You’ll  see  what  my  language  will  get  if  you  don’t  speak  out. 
You’d  better  or 

Marg.  Oh,  what  can  I do,  sir?  I daren’t  go  agin  him,  I'd  almost 
sooner  be  transported,  if  it  don’t  hurt  much. 

Carter.  Don’t  hurt  much ! Why,  it’s  bread  and  water  for  life  among 
the  blacks 

Marg.  Oh ! 

Carter  And  the  possums 

Marg.  Oh,  lor ! 

Carter.  And  flogging  with  a cat  o’nine-tails  once  a week  regular. 

Marg.  {in  affected  terror).  Lawk  a massy  ! Oh,  I’ll  tell  you  all  about  it 
sir,  sooner  than  that.  Mr.  Dunbar  come  here  about  five,  sir,  just  as  I was 
opening  the  shutters,  and  he  was  in  that  pain  that  he  could  ’ardly  sit  on 
his  horse,  and  he  told  me  to  call  master,  and  master  ’elped  him  off,  and 
got  him  something,  and  I was  ordered  to  run  for  a fly  to  the  Mauds  ley 
Arms,  that’s  not  a quarter  of  a mile  down  the  road,  and  Muster  Dunbar 
he  went  off  in  it  not  an  hour  afore  you  came,  and  that’s  all,  and  oh  please 
don’t  tell  master ! 

Carter  {to  Clement).  The  girl’s  speaking  the  truth,  I think.  I must 
inquire  about  that  fly.  You  keep  an  eye  on  all  here,  {to  Margaret)  Tell 
your  master  I’ve  not  time  to  bid  him  good  morning.  [Exit  k. 

Margaret  follows  him  towards  door,  then  turns,  tears  off  the  handkerchief  ana 

false  front,  aud  falls  exhausted  by  her  efforts  at  self-restraint  into  a chair. 

Clem.  Margaret ! In  this  disguise  ? Even  I did  not  detect  you. 

Marg.  No,  do  ; y^ou  must  leave  me,  Clement,  leave  me  with  my  un- 
happy father.  My  portion,  henceforth,  is  not  with  love  and  home.  1 
must  help  to  bear  his  heavy  burden ; I cannot  ask  you  to  share  it.  {he 
tries  to  speak)  No  words,  Clement : for  pity’s  sake,  leave  me  and  forget 
me ! 

Clem.  Leave  you  ! I love  you  too  well  to  disobey,  even  that  command. 
But  when  your  hour  of  trial  comes,  you  will  wish  for  me,  and  I will  be 
at  your  side  ! [Exit  r. 

Marg.  True  and  tender  to  the  last!  And  I must  give  up  this  great 


38 


HENKT  DUJS’BAE. 


love!  Yes,  I can  give  it  up,  but  I can’t  bear  to  tbink  of  it.  (opemdow,  l., 
leads  on  her  father^  he  sinks  feebly  into  chair.')  * 

WiLMOT.  Good  girl,  good  girl,  you  did  it  bravely— I could  have 
laughed  to  see  how  you  fooled  him— and  I too,  I did  not  think  I had  so 
much  life  in  me.  {faUs  hack  in  his  chair.) 

Marg.  And  now,  father,  we  will  leave  England  together,  and  find  some 
quiet  place  abroad  ; I will  work  for  both,  we  will  live  the  sad,  still  life 
that  prepares  for  death,  will  we  not,  father  7 

WiLMOT.  Ah,  you  are  your  mother’s  child.  Did  I not  see  her  the  day 
she  found  out  what  my  life  had  been — see  the  color  die  out  of  her  face, 
till  it  was  whiter  than  the  collar  round  her  neck,  and  the  next  moment 
her  arms  were  about  me,  and  her  eyes  looking  into  mine  as  yours  are 
now,  as  she  said,  “ I shall  never  love  you  less,  dear,  there  is  nothing  in 
the  world  shall  make  me  love  you  less  ! ” 

Marg.  What  she  would  have  been  to  you,  father,  in  this  hour  of  trial, 
shall  I not  be '?  Oh,  as  your  need  is  sorer,  let  me  be  more.  What’s  the 
matter  1 

WiLMOT.  I can’t  speak — I’m  choking.  {Jie  springs  up  a^d  presses  his  hand 
to  his  breast.) 

Marg.  Oh,  what  is  this  ? 

WiLMOT.  Death  ! not  terrible,  as  I us«d  to  see  him,  but  like  one  that 
brings  pardon  and  peace  ! Don’t  leave  me — let  me  see  your  face  and 
feel  your  arms  to  the  last.  Pray  for  me,  Margaret,  pray  for  me  1 {falls 
hack  dead.) 

Enter  Clement,  at  window. 

Marg  {shrieks).  Dead  I Gone  to  his  account — gone  forever — and  I am 
all  alone  ! {kneels  by  the  body.) 

Clem.  I am  here,  Margaret,  {tries  to  raise  her,  Carter  appears  at  the 
windov:  with  the  Major  m custody  of  Tibbs,  he  holds  the  belt  in  his  han>^ 

Enter  Carter,  r.,  with  the  belt,  removing  his  hat  reverently. 

Clem,  {waves  him  back).  Too  late  ! 

Marg.  Not  so,  his  judge  knows,  his  judge  is  merciful ! {looking  intently 
at  the  body.) 

CURTAIN. 


SYNOPSIS. 

play  opens  in  the  little  parlor  of  a humble  but  particularly  nice-looking  cottage 
at  Wandsworth.  Mary,  the  servant  maid,  is  startled  by  a rii^  at  the  garden  gate, 
when,  looking  out,  she  sees  that  the  visitor,  in  a carriage,  is  a Miss  Laura  Dunbar, 
whom  she  appears  to  greatly  admire.  Miss  Dunbar  had  called  to  take  a music  les- 
son of  Margaret  Wentworth  ; but  that  young  lady  being  absent,  the  maid  in- 
forms Laura  that  she  is  about  to  leave  Miss  Wentworth’s  service,  as  her  mistress 
can  no  longer  afford  to  keep  two  servants.  Laura  thereupon  engages  Mary  to  come 
to  her  at  the  expiration  of  her  service.  Miss  Dunbar  then  tells  Mary  that  she  has 
a little  birthday  present  for  Margaret,  and  proceeds  to  her  room  to  leave  it  as  a 
surprise.  While  Laura  is  out  of  the  room,  two  men  knock  at  the  door ; Mary  ad- 
mits one,  the  other  remaining  outside.  This  person,  after  some  preliminary  ques- 
tioning as  to  Miss  Wentworth’s  terms  for  tuition,  etc.,  begins  to  question  the  girl 
as  to  Mr.  Wentworth’s  habits.  While  the  conversation  is  proceeding,  Miss  W ent- 
WORTH  enters ; but  not  before  Mary  had  informed  the  stranger  that  Mr.  Went- 
WORTH  had  left  early  that  morning  for  Southampton.  The  strange  man,  Mr.  Car 


HENBY  DUNBAB. 


39 


riB,  continues  the  conversation  with  the  mistress  after  the  maid  has  left  to  apprise 
Miss  Dunbar  of  Maboarbt’s  return.  During  her  absence,  Carter  takes  his  leave ; 
but,  before  doing  so,  ejaculates  a blessing  on  Margaret,  to  that  young  lady’s  great 
surprise,  Margaret  then  takes  out  a letter  which  she  had  received  from  her  fa- 
ther, but  before  examining  its  contents,  she  feelingly  expresses  a wish  that  her 
father  would  quit  the  dark  and  desperate  courses  that  he  at  times  followed,  so  that 
others,  besides  her,  might  know  something  of  the  good  there  was  in  him.  In  this 
letter  her  father  tells  her  that  very  many  years  ago  he  committed  the  crime  of  for- 
gery to  save  a much  loved  young  master  ; the  forgery  was  detected,  the  master  was 
screened,  and  sent  off  to  India,  while  he  was  denounced,  tried,  and  convicted.  His 
master  might  have  saved  him,  but  never  opened  his  lips.  “ From  that  day,”  con- 
tinued Margaret’s  father,  “ I have  been  a branded  man  ; every  man’s  hand  has 
been  against  me.”  Wentworth  proceeded  to  say  that  this  man  was  coming  back 
to  England,  and  that  he  meant  to  meet  him,  and  try  if  he  would  not.  do  something 
for  the  man  he  had  seen  ruined  twenty -five  years  before,  and  if  he  would  not,  he  in- 
tended to  give  him  a piece  of  his  mind.  The  father  concluded  by  saying  that  the 
name  of  the  man  he  expected  to  meet  was  “ Henry  Dunbar.”  This  was  none  other 
than  the  father  of  her  dear  friend,  Laura.  While  Margaret  is  pondering  over  this 
evil  news,  Clement  Austin  enters,  and  it  is  soon  apparent  by  his  tender  manner 
and  his  manifestations  of  interest  in  her  welfare,  that  he  is  her  lover.  Indeed,  he 
proceeds  to  declare  his  affection,  and  to  ask  her  hand.  Margaret  refuses  ; but  be- 
ing hard  pressed  for  her  reasons,  acknowledges  that  she  loves  CLEMENr,  but  an  in- 
superable bar  prevents  their  union — her  father  is  a dishonored  man— an  outcast— a 
criminal.  Clement  expresses  his  willingness  to  wed  her,  but  Margaret,  while 
grateful  for  his  nobleness,  will  only  consent  to  wed  him  after  they  have  jointly  tried 
to  bring  her  father  back  to  the  right  path.  The  seqond  scene  introduces  us  to  an 
amusing  vagabond,  who  enters  the  sitting  room  of  the  “ George”  at  Winchester. 
This  individual,  whose  habiliments  are  “ in  the  sere,  the  yellow  leaf,”  indulges  in  a 
characteristic  soliloquy,  from  which  we  learn  that  he  is  a broken-down  sport,  and 
a criminal,  indeed;  that  he  had  found  that  “Joe  Wilmot  ” was  putting  up  at  this 
hotel,  and  that  he  intended  to  await  his  arrival ; that  he  had  seen  Joe  with  a stran- 
ger enter  a wood  near  St.  Cross ; that  his  first  move  was  to  accost  Joe,  and  try  to 
borrow  some  “brads”  from  him;  but  finally  thought  it  better  to  come  to  his  hotel 
and  await  his  arrival.  A waiter  enters,  and  not  liking  the  cut  of  the  Major’s  coat 
(for  a major  he  announces  himself  to  be),  tries  to  bow  him  out  of  the  apartment, 
telling  him  the  room  is  engaged  for  the  great  banker,  Mr.  Henry  Dunbar,  who  has 
just  come  back  from  India,  and  “ who’s  worth  a million  if  he’s  worth  a penny.” 
The  servant  leaves  the  room,  and  in  his  absence  the  Major  proceeds  to  examine  the 
trunks  of  the  banker,  which  have  arrived.  His  inspection  is  cut  short  by  the  ser- 
vant’s return  to  tell  him  that  a gent  named  Harry  Carter  wants  him.  The  Ma- 
jor starts  to  leave  by  a back  door,  but  is  headed  off,  caught,  and  handcuffed  by  an  as- 
sistant of  Carter’s.  He  is  taken  off  in  custody,  having,  however,  previously  re- 
fused to  reveal  Wilmot  alias  Wentworth’s  whereabouts.  Soon  after,  Went- 
worth, disguised  as  Henry  Dunbar,  enters,  and  orders  that  dinner  shall  wait  until 
the  arrival  of  his  friend  Wilmot,  whom  he  had  sent  across  the  country  (he  said)  to 
apprise  a Mr.  Stratton  of  his  arrival.  While  dinner  is  waiting,  Mr.  Dunbar  pro- 
ceeds to  open  the  trunks,  and  reads  aloud  the  contents  of  some  of  the  papers.  From 
these  documents  he  learns  all  the  particulars  about  thebusiness  of  the  firm  of  which 
Dunbar  was  leading  partner,  and  he,  also,  finds  a lot  of  letters  written  by  Laura 
to  her  father.  Dunbar  declines  still  to  set  down  to  dinner  until  the  arrival  of  Wil- 
mot, and  while  talking  to  the  waiter  about  his  unaccountable  absence,  a noise  is 
heard  outside;  a crowd  appears  in  the  corridor  ; Henry  Dunbar  advances  to  it, 
lifts  a sheet  that  covers  a body  just  borne  in,  and  exclaims,  “Joseph  Wilmot! 
dead  I”  In  the  second  act  Laura  is  complaining  to  her  maid,  Mary,  of  the  little 
affection  which  her  father  manifests  for  her,  when  Arthur  Lovell  is  announced. 
This  gentleman  is  informed  by  Laura  of  her  father’s  coldness.  Lovell  tells  her  he 
has  a fine  appointment  in  India,  and  had  he  but  her  hand  in  marriage  he  would  be 
perfectly  happy.  Dunbar,  who  had  entered  unobserved,  comes  forward,  and  after 
asking  LauraTo  retire  for  a few  moments,  surprises  Lovell  by  briefly  telling  him 
that  his  health  is  broken  by  his  long  life  in  India,  that  he  must  seek  the  continent 
at  once ; but  before  he  goes  he  desires  to  see  Laura,  his  dear  daughter,  happily 
married  ; he  observes  that  they  love  each  other,  and  wishes  their  union  without  any 
delay ; adding  that  instead  of  settlements,  he  will  give  his  daughter  a handsome 
sum  in  money  and  a present  of  magnificent  diamonds.  Lovbll,  transported  with 
delight,  rushes  off  to  Laura’s  boudoir ; Dunbar  having  left  the  room  before  him. 


40 


HENKY  DUNBAlt- 


Just  afterward^  Margaret,  in  deep  mourning,  is  ushered  in.  Lauba  enters  and 
embraces  her.  An  affecting  interview  takes  place  between  them.  Margaret  be- 
ing determined  to  follow  up  Dunbar  to  the  death  for  the  supposed  murder  of  her 
father.  Dunbar  sends  his  daughter,  who  had  gone  in  search  of  him,  back  to  Mar- 
garet, to  say  that  he  will  never  see  her,  but  that  he  will  make  her  a handsome 
yearly  allowance,  and  gives  his  daughter  fifty  pounds  to  hand  her  as  a first  pay- 
ment. Laura  returns  to  Margaret,  and  hands  her  the  fifty  pounds  in  an  envel- 
ope. Margaret  passionately  throws  down  the  money,  signals  Laura  to  leave  her, 
and  exclaiming,  “ But  I will  see  him,  and  he  shall  see  me,  if  I drop  down  dead  !”  is 
about  to  enter,  when  Clement  Austin  enters.  The  young  man  informs  Margaret 
that  he  is  the  cashier  in  the  house  of  which  Dunbar  is  head,  and  is  in  attendance 
with  important  papers.  The  young  girl  reveals  to  Clement  part  of  her  story,  and 
he  determines  to  manage  to  get  her  ah  interview  with  Dunbar  In  the  next  scene 
the  Major  reappears  ; he  has  run  against  Mr.  Balderby  while  entering  the  bank 
of  Dunbar  & Co.  Here  jthe  Major  gets  into  conversation  with  the  diamond  merch- 
ant, and  is  only  prevented  from  filching  some  of  the  gems  by  the  entrance  of  Car- 
ter, who  warns  him.  The  Major  hangs  about  to  get  an  interview  with  Dunbar. 
Meanwhile,  Dunbar  has  the  books  of  the  bank  brought  to  him  by  Clement  Austin, 
and  proposes  to  draw  a very  large  amount  out  to  buy  diamonds  and  for  other  pur- 
poses. Dunbar  tells  Austin  that  he  wishes  an  annuity  to  be  paid  to  a Miss  Went- 
worth ; the  young  man  tells  Dunbar  that  he  knows  her  ; indeed,  is  betrothed  to 
her.  Dunbar  advises  him  to  marry  her,  and  says  that  he  will  befriend  them,  but 
that  he  cannot  see  her.  Just  then  Carter  enters  to  inform  the  banker  that  he  is 
employed  to  investigate  the  murder  of  Wilmot,  and  that  Wilmot’s  daughter, 
Margaret,  even  accuses  him  of  the  crime.  Dunbar  gives  the  detective  a fee,  and 
advises  him  to  try  and  clear  up  the  mystery.  Harldly  has  the  detective  left,  ere 
the  Major  enters.  He  is  announced  as  Major  Vavasour,  and  soon  gives  Dunbar 
to  understand  that  he  sees  through  the  whole  affair,  and  that  he  must  be  bribed  to 
silence.  The  banker  gives  him  two  thousand  pounds,  which  satisfies  him  for  the 
nonce.  Clement  Austin  now  determines  to  bring  Margaret  and  Dunbar  face  to 
face,  but  the  banker  frustrates  his  plan  by  leaving  the  city  for  his  country  bouse, 
Maudsley  Abbey.  To  this  place  he  is  followed  by  the  Major,  who  fears  that  he  is 
about  to  leave  England,  and  thus  give  him  the  slip,  especially  as  Laura  had  just 
been  married  to  Arthur  Lovell  and  is  off  on  their  wedding  trip.  The  Major  tells 
Dunbar  that  he  has  taken  a small  place  close  to  his  lodge  gates,  and  will  not  stir 
from  there.  The  banker  has  to  again  bribe  the  fellow  to  silence,  and  he  departs. 
Dunbar,  once  more  alone,  begins  casting  retrospective  glances  over  the  past  events, 
and  in  the  midnight  silence  conjures  up  all  the  fearful  doings  of  that  eventful 
night,  when  the  returned  India  merchant  and  the  wretched  forger  stood  face  to  face 
beneath  the  dark  branches  of  the  wood  near  St.  Cross.  He  has  determined  on 
flight ; has  tried  by  copious  draughts  of  brandy  to  dull  his  senses,  and  has  at  length 
fallen  into  an  unquiet  slumber  at  the  table,  his  head  resting  in  his  hand.  Then 
Margaret  stealthily  enters,  and  listens  to  the  broken  sentences  that  proceed  from 
the  wretched  man’s  white  lips.  At  length  he  utters  the  word  “ Margaret.”  Terri- 
bly affrighted  is  the  girl  to  hear  her  own  name,  and  uttered  by  her  father !— the 
father  that  she  supposed  was  now  lying  in  his  shroud.  Margaret  rouses  her  fa- 
ther. An  explanation  ensues,  in  which  Dunbar  convinces  his  daughter  that  the 
banker  was  killed  by  him  in  a struggle  for  life,  and  that  he  then  assumed  the  name 
and  personated  Dunbar  in  order  to  save  himself.  Margaret  no  sooner  gets  over 
her  surprise,  than  she  urges  her  father  to  fly  at  once,  and  evade  the  death  penalty 
that  surely  would  befall  him,  as  no  one  but  a daughter  would  believe  his  statement. 
Dunbar  obeys  her  and  escapes.  In  Act  the  Fourth  Laura  has  been  recalled  to  the 
Abbey,  her  father  having  been  terribly  injured  by  a railroad  accident.  The  doctor 
has  forbidden  any  one  seeing  Dunbar.  The  wretched  man,  terribly  shaken  and 
bruised,  is  barely  able  to  sit  up,  when  Margaret  raps  at  his  window,  and  begs  to  be 
let  in.  Dunbar  with  great  difficulty  opens  the  window,  when  his  daughter  almost 
falls  in,  her  hair  dishevelled,  and  her  whole  aspect  most  pitiful  and  woe-begone. 
In  a few  hurried  sentences  she  tells  her  father  that  Carter  and  Austin,  impelled  by 
her,  had  investigated  the  murder  affair;  had  become  convinced  that  Dunbar  had 
killed  Wilmot,  and  that  they  were  even  now  on  their  way  to  arrest  him  ; she  had 
managed  to  get  ahead  of  them  ; and  there  was  not  an  instant  to  be  lost ; he  must 
escape  at  all  hazards.  Yielding  to  his  daughter’s  tears  and  prayers,  the  still  feeble 
man  mounts  a horse,  which  Margaret  procures  from  the  stables;  and  partly  sup- 
ported by  bis  brave-hearted  daughter,  he  sets  out.  Carter  and  Austin  arrive  at 
the  Abbey  just  half  an  hour  after  Dunbir  had  left.  Dunbar  and  his  daugh- 
ter contrive  to  get  as  far  as  the  Major’s  house,  but  can  proceed  no  farther.  They 
gain  admittance.  The  Major,  after  securing  a belt  enclosing  the  diamonds  which 
Dunbar  had  with  him,  consents  to  let  Dunbar  remain  in  his  disguise,  while  he 
takes  the  horse  and  starts  off,  having  no  wish  to  meet  Carter.  The  detective  soon 
after  arrives,  but  is  baflfied  by  the  ingenuity  of  Margaret,  who  has  assumed  the 
disguise  of  a servant  But  all  in  vain  are  the  noble  girl’s  efforts  ; her  father  is 
death-stricken,  and  falls  dead  in  his  daughter’s  arms ; but  not  before  he  had  consoled 
her  with  the  assurance  of  his  sincere  penitence.  Carter  (with  the  belt)  and  Cle- 
ment enter  reverently.  The  latter  exclaims : “ Too  late.”  “ Not  so,”  replies  Mar- 
garet ; “his  Judge  knows— his  J udge  is  merciful !” 


A CHEERFUL  LIAR. 

Farcical  Comedy  in  Three  Acts 

By  JOHN  A.  FRASER. 

Antboji  of  ’‘The  Noble  Outcast,”  “The  Merry  Cobbler,”  “A 
Ananias,”  “Our  Starry  Banner,”  “Santiago,”  etc. 

Cast  of  Characters. 

Hastings  Hussel,  J.  P.— The  cheerful  liar. 

Randolph  Dearborn— An  accessory  before  the  fact. 

‘Rev.”  Ezra  Stiggins— A gold  cure  practitioner. 

Gen.  Boomer— A Chicago  real  estate  millionaire. 

Guy  McGuffin— A county  constable. 

Flora  Boomer— A girl  who  has  a good  time  when  she  wants  to. 
Birdie  Sweetlove — Housekeeper  at  the  gold  cure  ^tabBshme®^ 
Lncretia  Spriggins— A Hoosier  schoolma^am. 

Act  I.  Deception 
Act  II.  Detection. 

Act  111.  Destruction. 



?lay«  two  hours.  ^ 

Price,  2s  cents. 


o.xiieking  farcical  comedy  was  very  succeesfuily  peiw 
formed  during  a long  season,  under  another  title,  by  the  brilliant 
comedian,  Mr.  John  Dillon,  who  made  a great  hit  in  the  part  of 
Judge  Hussel.  Unlike  most  light  pieces,  this  one  has  a capital 

£lot,  full  of  entanglements.  In  brief,  this  is  the  story  of  a Gay 
►eceiver.  During  the  civil  war  Hastings  Hussel  and  Bert  Boomer 
fought  side  by  side  in  the  Confederate  army.  After  the  declaration 
©f  peace  both  of  them  moved  North,  where  Boomer  grew  wealthy 
fei  the  real  estate  business  and  married.  Hussel  went  to  Indi-. 
ana,  became  a country  justice  and  remained  single.  Boomer,  a 
widower  when  the  play  opens,  had  a daughter  who  eloped  with 
'Randolph  Dearborn,  the  young  people  being  followed  on  the  next 
fain  by  the  irate  father.  Flora  and  her  lover  go  to  Huesel  to  be 
narried,  but  find  that  a license  is  necessary  in  Indiana.  While 
hey  are  gone  to  procure  one  Boomer  arrives  ai^  the  old  friends 
recognize  each  other.  When  Randolph  returns  Hussel  offers,  for  a 
lonsideration,  to  pacify  Boomer  and  obtain  his  consent,  trusting 
fo  the  young  man’s  aristocratic  name  and  Boomer’s  Southern  ideas 
of  birth,  etc.,  to  work  his  point.  He  finds,  however,  that  Randolph 
is  a foundling  and  so  undertakes  to  provide  him  with  parents..  He 
works  Lncretia  Spriggins  an  old  maid,  and  “Rev.”  Ezra  Stiggins,  a 
gold  cure  fraud,  into  the  plot  to  personate  the  parents,  and  just  as 
success  crowns  his  efforts  Birdie  Sweetlove  denounces  the  con- 
spiracy. Then  Boomer  determines  that  Flora  must  be  married  at 
once  and  offers  her  to  Hussel . The  J udge  jumps  at  the  chance  and 
goes  to  Boomer’s  summer  villa  to  pay  his  court.  Flora,  to  thwart 
him,  disguises  herself  in  her  Cousin  Tom’s  clothes  and  tells  her 
ancient  admirer  that  Flora  has  gone  to  town.  Meanwhile  Hussel 
jams  that  Randolph  has  arrived  for  a stolen  interview,  and  notic- 
ing the  striking  likeness  of  the  supposed  Tom  to  Flora  proposes 
that  Tom  shall  masquerade  as  his  cousin  and  take  a rise  ont  of  the 
rivaL^Flora  is  only  too  willing,  and  putting  on  her  own  clothes 
receives  her  lover.  The  climax  is  reached  when  Hussel,  to  carry 
fhejokeon  Randolph  to  its  limit,  marries  the  supposed  Tom  to 
him.  Of  course,  when  the  General  returns,  it  is  found  that  the 
marriaf!9  JeeaL  »*^d  bo  the  two  old  fellows  make  best  of  a bad 
^ob. 


UNCLE  RUBE 

HfW  UKilOINAL  HOMESTEAD  PLAY  IN  FOUR  ACTH. 

By  CHARLES  TOWNSEND. 

A^hor  of  more  than  seventy  successf  ul  productUmA 
'Pinett  Rural  Drama  Ever  Published. 

PRICE,  25  CENTS* 

CHARACTERS. 

StTBEN  Rodney,  (Uncle  Rube)  Justice  of  the  Peace,  School  Trustee,  aua . 

Master  hand  at  “swappin  bosses’*. Character  lead. 

Simon  Smarley,  a smooth  and  cunning  old  villain Character  heavy. 

Mark,  his  son,  a promising  young  rascal Straight  heavy, 

Gordon  Gray,  a popular  young  artist ^luvenile  lead 

Upson  Asterbilt,  an  up-to-date  New  York  dude Character  comedy, 

Ike,  the  hired  man.  “I  want  ter  knowl*’ Eccentric. 

Bob  Green,  a comical  young  rustic Low  comedy 

B'tLL  Tappan.  a country  constable Comedy 

Milicent  Lee,  “the  pretty  school  teacher” Juvenile  lady 

Mrs.  Maria  Bunn,  a charming  widow... . ......  Character  comedy 

Tagos,  a waif  from  New  York Souhrette 

Timb,— Mid  Autumn.  Plagb«— Vermont. 

Time  of  Playing.— Two  hours  and  a quarter 


synopsis. 

ACT  I.  The  Old  Homestead.  Uncle  Rube  arrives. 

ACT  II.  The  Constable’s  office.  The  plot  to  ruin  Uncle  Rube. 

ACT  III.  Evening  at  the  old  farm.  Uncle  Rube  is  arrested. 

ACT  IV.  The  Constable’s  office  again.  The  old  farmer  wins! 

This  play  was  written  by  one  of  the  most  popular  of  American  dramatisia, 
whose  works  have  sold  by  the  hundreds  of  thousands.  One  of  the  best  plays 
of  its  class  ever  written.  Splendid  characters.  1 owerful  climaxes.  Bright 
wit.  Merry  humor.  Very  easy  to  produce.  Uequlres  only  th^ee  scenes.  Nc 
shifts  of  scenery  during  any  act.  Costumes  all  modern  No  difficult  proper^ 
lies  required. 


THE  AUTHOR’5  OPINJON. 

Mb.  Townsend  says  of  this  drama,  “I  consider  that  ‘Uncle  Rube*  is  far  sm* 
parior  to  any  play  depicting  country  life  that  I have  yet  written.” 


This  is  the  play  for  everybody— amateurs  as  well  as  professionals.  It  can 
be  produced  on  any  stage,  and  pleases  all  classes,  from  the  most  critical  city 
audiences  to  those  of  the  smallest  country  towns.  Printed  directly  from  th€ 
author’s  acting  copy,  with  all  the  original  stage  directiona 


Address  Orders  to 

THE  DRAMATIC  PUBLISHING  COMPAND^- 

CHICAaO 


Santiago 

OR 

THE  RED,  WHITE  AND  BLUa 


A WAR  DRAHA  IN  POUR  ACTS. 

By  JOHN  A.  FRASER. 

AoUkv  <rf  “A  Noble  Outcast,”  “The  Merry  Cobblw,“ 
•‘Our  Starry  Banner,”  etc. 

Price,  25  cents* 


CHARACTERS. 

Capt.  Oscar  Hutton,  U.  S.  A.  In  love  with  Cora  Leading  Juvenile 

Lieut.  Fisk,  U.  S.  A.  In  love  with  his  duty Juvenile  hit 

Milton  Merry,  U.  S.  N,  In  love  with  Bess Light  Comedy 

Lieut.  Cristobal,  S.  A.  In  love  with  soidiering Straight 

Dr.  Harrison,  Red  Cross  H.S.  In  love  with  surgery  Straight  old  man 

Elmer  Walton,  banker.  In  love  with  Spanish  bonds Character  old  man 

Phillip  Basseti  his  stepson.  In  love  with  Ysobel Juvenile 

Fernando  Diaz,  Walton’s  cashier,  afterwards  S.  A.  In  love  with  Cora.. 

Heavy 

Beverly  Brown,  Walton’s  butler,  afterwards  Red  Cross  H.  S.  In  love  with 

chickens Kegro  Comedy 

Cornelius  Dwyer,  Walton’s  coachman,  afterwards  U.  S.  A,  In  love  with 

“Naygurs” Irieh  Comedy 

Antonio  Carlos,  a Cuban  planter.  In  love  with  Spain Character  old  man 

Cora  Basset,  Walton's  stepdaughter.  In  leve  with  Oscar Juvenile 

Bess  Walton,  Walton’s  daughter.  In  love  with  Milton Ingenue 

Ysobel  Carlos,  Antonio’s  daughter.  In  love  with  Phillip . Juvenile 

American  Soldiers,  American  Sailors,  Spanish  Soldiers,  Guerillas. 


Actual  time  of  piaying,  two  hours. 
SYNOPSIS. 


ACT  I.  The  ball  at  Walton’s,  Washington,  D.  C.  Handsome  interior. 

ACT  II.  The  Red  Cross  Hospital.  First  day’s  battle  of  Santiago.  Exterior. 

ACT  in.  Scene  1. —Interior,  Guerilla  headquarters  in  the  Sierra  Cobra,  near  Santl. 
ago.  Scene  2.— Exterior.  The  underbrush  of  Sierra  Cobra.  Scene  3.— Fight  in  the 
mountain  pass,  second  day’s  battle  of  Santiago.  Exterior. 

ACT  IV.  Hotel  Tacon,  Santiago,  on  the  night  of  tho  surrender.  Interior. 

NOTE.— Walton,  Dr.  Harrison  and  Carlos  may  double  easily,  and  the  piece  played 
with  nine  males,  three  females. 

The  best  Cuban  war  play  ever  written.  Easy  to  produce,  but 
very  effective.  Thrilling  situations,  fine  comedy,  intense  cli- 
maxes. Comic  Irishman  and  Negro.  Three^  magnificent  female 
parts.  Picturesque  Spanish  villain  and  heroic  juvenile  lead.  No 
special  scenery  is  required,  aa  every  regular  theatre,  in  ita  ordin- 
ary equipment,  has  every  set  called  for.  Adapted  to  both  profes* 
iional  and  amateur  companiea. 


Address  Orders  to 

THE  DRAMATIC  PUBLISHING  COMPANYf 
cmcAOo* 


THE  SPINSTERS'  CONVENTION. 

(The  Original  Old  Maids’  Convention.) 

Price,  25  Cents. 

An  evening’s  entertainment  which  is  always  a sure  hit  and  a 
raoney-maker.  Has  been  given  many  hundred  times  by  schools, 
societies  and  churches,  with  the  greatest  success.  An  evening  of 
refined  fun.  It  requires  from  twelve  to  twenty  ladies  and  two 
gentlemen,  although  ladies  may  take  the  two  male  parts.  A raised 
platform  with  curtains  at  the  back  is  all  the  stage  requires,  but  a 
fully  equipped  opera  stage  may  be  utilized  and  to  great  advantage. 

Ridiculous  old  maid  costumes,  with  all  their  frills  and  furbe- 
lows, their  cork-screw  curls,  mittens,  work  bags,  bird  cages,  etc., 
are  the  proper  costumes.  Later  on  in  the  program  some  pretty 
young  women  in  modern  evening  dress  are  required.  The  latter 
should  each  be  able  to  give  a number  of  a miscellaneous  program, 
that  is,  be  able  to  sing,  play  some  instrument,  dance,  whistle  or 
recite  well. 

This  entertainment  utilizes  all  sorts  of  talent,  and  gives  each 
participant  a good  part.  Large  societies  can  give  every  member 
something  to  do. 


SYNOPSIS, 

Gathering  of  the  Members  of,  the  Society. -^The  Roll-Call. — 
The  Greeting  Song, — ^Minutes  of  the  last  meeting. — Report  of  The 
Treasurer. — Music;  ^‘Sack  Waltz.” — A paper  on  Woman’s  Rights. 
— Song:  ‘‘No  One  to  Love,  None  to  Caress.” — Reading  of  “Mar- 
riage Statistics.” — The  Advent  of  the  Mouse. — Initiation  of  two 
Candidates  into  the  Society. — ^The  Psalm  of  Marriage. — Secretary’s 
Report  on  Eligible  Men. — A Petition  to  Congress. — Original  Poem 
by  Betsy  Bobbett. — Song:  “Why  Don’t  the  Men  Propose?”— Re- 
port of  The  Vigilance  Committee. — An  Appeal  to  the  Bachelors. — 
Prof.  Make-over. — ^The  Remodeloscope. -Testimonials.— The  Traus*^^ 
formation  and  a miscellaneous  program. 

ADDRESS  ORDERS  TO 

THE  DRAMATIC  PUBLISHING  COMPANYt 
CHICAGO. 


BECAUbc  I luVE  you 
DRAMA  IN  POUR  ACTS. 

By  JOHN  A.  PRASBR. 

tbor  ot  **A  Woman's  Honor,**  **A  Noble  Outcast,**  **A  tSoOem  Antnfae, 
'^Santiago,**  etc. 


I*rlce,  25  cents* 

. I Eight  male,  four  female  characters.  Plays  two  hours.  Modem  costumes. 
*This  is  probably  the  strongest  drama  written  of  the  modern  romantic  style. 
It  Is  a pure  love  story  and  its  sentiment  and  pathos  are  of  the  sterling,  honest 
kind  which  appeals  to  every  man  and  woman  with  a human  heart.  The  stage 
jbusiness  will  be  found  extremely  novel,  but  easily  accomplished.  The  cli- 
maxes are  all  new  and  tremendously  effective.  One  climax  especially  has 
never  been  surpassed. 


CAST  OP  CHARACTERS. 


Imogene  Courtleigh.  W ilf ul,  wayward  and  wealthy. Juvenile  lead 

Ginger.  A Gypsy  waif Soubrett . 

Nance  Tyson.  Her  supposed  mother Character 

Prudence  Freeheart.  A poor  relation Old  maid  comedy 


,link  Potts.  His  chum  and  incidentally  in  love  with  Ginger.  comedy 

M Courtleigh.  Imogene’s  guardian Heavy 

Buck  Tyson.  A Gypsy  tintcer. Character  comedy 

Elmer  van  Sittert.  ^Anglomaniac,  New  Yorker Dude  comedy 

Major  Duffy.  County  Clerk  and  Confederate  veteran Irish  comedy 

Squire  Ripley.  A V irginia  landlord Character  old  man 

Lige.  A gentleman  of  color. . . Negro  character 


Note:  Squire  Ripley  and  Van  Sittert  may  double, 

SYNOPSIS  OP  SCENES; 

Act  I.  * The  Georg#  Washington,”  a country  tavern  In  old  Virginia.  An 
Impromptu  wedding.  “When  I was  on  the  boards  at  old  Pott’s  the-ayter-” 
“Horace  has  fallen  in  love  and  has  done  nothing  but  rave  about  her  ever 
since.”  “The  marriage  ceremony  performed,  I depart,  and  you  will  make  no 
attempt  ever  to  see  me  again,”  “Except  at  your  own  request,  never r* 

Act  2.  Lover’s  Leap,  a Blue  Mountain  precipice.  A daring  rescue.  “Gold 
floes  not  always  purchase  happiness,  lady.”  “Do  you  ever  feel  the  need  of  a 
faithful  friend?”  “1  do,  I do,  I’m  thinking  of  buying  a bulldog.”  “Look  at 
thestrideof  him,  and  Imogene  sitting  him  as  if  he  were  a part  of  herself,” 
Within  twenty  feet  of  certain  death.  “Gone?  Without  even  my  thanks  for 
such  a deed  of  desperate  heroism?” 

Act  3.  The  Courtleigh  Place.  A woman’s  folly.  “And  you  say  his  father 
was  a gentleman?”  “I  have  already  refused  to  sign  the  document.”  “Stand 
back,  she  is  my  wife.”  [ 

Act  4,  The  “Mountain  Studio.”  “You’re  too  good  to  let  that  French  glif 
get  you.”  “I  struck  him  full  in  the  face  and  the  challenge  followed.”  “YoR 
will  not  meet  this  man,  dear  love?”  “It  shall,  at  least,  be  blow  for  blow.’* 
“I  release  you  from  your  promise.  Fight  that  man.**  “I’m  ths  happiest  miiQ 
h)  old  Virginia,  because  you  love  me.” 


Address  Orders  to 

T**n  ORAHATIC  PUBLISHINO  COnPANV. 

CHICAOO. 


TOnPKIN’S  HIRED  MAN. 

A DRAMA  IN  THREE  ACT5. 

By  EPPIB  W.  MERRiMAN. 

Hearts,”  “A  Pair  of  Artists”,  “Through  a MatrUUb 
niaH  Bureau, ””Their  First  Meeting,”  “Comedies  for  Chlldren,”“Socials,’^ 
etc. 

Price,  25  cents. 

This  is  a strong  play.  No  finer  character  than  Dixey,  th  hired  man, 
has  ever  been  created  in  American  dramatic  literature.  He  compels  alternate 
laughter  and  tears,  and  possesses  such  quaint  ways  and  so  much  of  the  milk 
of  human  kindness,  as  to  make  him  a favorite  with  all  audiences.  The  other 
male  characters  make  good  contrasts:  Tompkins,  the  prosperous,  straightfor- 
ward farmer;  Jerry,  the  country  bumpkin,  and  Remington,  the  manly  young 
American.  Mrs.  Tompkins  is  a strong  old  woman  part;  Julia,  the  spoiled 
daughter;  Louise,  the  leading  juvenile,  and  Ruth,  the  romping  soubrette,  are 
all  worthy  of  the  best  talent.  This  is  a fine  play  of  American  life;  the  scene 
of  the  three  acts  being  laid  in  the  kitchen  of  Tompkin's  farm-uOuse.  The 
settings  are  quite  elaborate,  but  easy  to  manage,  as  there  is  no  change  of 
scene.  We  strongly  recommend  “Tompkin’s  Hired  Man”  as  a sure  success. 

CHARACTERS. 

Asa  Tompkins— A prosperous  farmer  who  cannot  tolerate  deceit 
Dixey— The  hired  man,  and  one  of  nature’s  noblemen. 

John  Remington— A manly  young  man  in  love  with  Louise. 

Jerry— A half -grown,  awkward  country  lad. 

Mrs.  Tompkins— A woman  with  a secret  that  embitters  her. 

Julia— A spoiled  child,  the  only  daughter  born  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tompklna 
Lrouise— The  daughter  whom  Mr.  Tompkins  believes  to  be  his  own. 

Ruth— Mr.  Tompkln’s  niece,  and  a great  romp. 

PLAYS  ABOUT  TWO  HOURSe 
SYNOPSIS: 

Act  I.  Sewing  carpet  rags.  “John  and  I are  engaged.”  “Well,  you 
can  disengage  yourself,  for  you’ll  never  be  married.”  “Mrs.  Clark,  she’s  took 
worse.”  Who  makes  the  cake?  Julia  declines  to  sew  carpet  rags.  “It 
would  ruin  my  hands  for  the  piano  or  my  painting.”  Dixey  to  the  rescue. 
‘You  take  the  rags  a minute,  child,  and  I’ll  jist  give  that  fire  a boost.” 
Dixey *s  story.  “It  breaks  his  heart,  but  he  gives  her  away,  an’  he  promises 
never  teh  let  her  know  as  how  he’s  her  father.”  Enter  Jerry.  “Howdy.” 
John  gets  a situation  in  the  city.  Farewell.  “It’s  a dandy  scheme,  all  the 
same.  We’ll  have  our  party  in  spite  of  Aunt  Sarah.”  “Oh,  I’m  so  happy.” 
The  quartette.  Curtain. 

Act  2.  Chopping  mince-meat.  The  letter.  Louisa  faints.  “How  dare 
;ou  read  a paper  that  does  not  concern  you?  “You  have  robbed  me  of  my 
/ather’s  love.*’  The  mother’s  story.  Dinner,  “I  swan,  I guess  I set  this 
table  with  a pitchfork.”  “Now,  Lambkin,  tell  Dixey  all  ’bout  it,  can’t  yer?” 
“It  looks  zlf  they’d  got  teh  be  a change  here  purty  darned  quick,  an’  zii  I"m 
the  feller ’lected  teh  bring  It  ’bout.”  “None  o’  my  bizness,  I know,  but— » 
I am  her  father  1”  “It’s  love  the  leetle  one  wants,  not  money.’  ’ “If  I’d  been 
a man,  I’d  never  give  my  leetle  gal  away.”  “I’m  dead  sot  on  them  two  prop* 
’sitions.”  Curtain, 

Act  3.  Dixey  builds  the  fire.  “Things  haint  so  dangerous  when  every- 
body’s got  his  stummick  full.”  The  telegram.  “It  means  that  Louise  is  my 
promised  wife.”  “By  what  right  do  you  insinuate  that  there  has  been 
treachery  under  this  roof?”  “A  miserable,  dirty,  little  waif,  picked  up  on 
the  streets,  and  palmed  off  upon  my  father  as  his  child  I ” “Oh  my  w ife,  your 
attitude  tells'a  story  that  breaks  my  heart.”  “Yeh  druve  her  to  do  what  she 
did,  an’  yeh  haint  got  no  right  teh  blame  her  now.”  “Friend  Tompkins,  a 
third  man  has  taken  our  leetle  gal,  an’  we’ve  both  got  teh  larn  teh  git  along 
without  her.  We  kin  all  be  happy  In  spite  o’  them  two  sentimental  kids.^ 
Curtain. 

ADDRESS  ORDERS  TO 

the  dramatic  pubushino  company. 

CHICAGO. 


DIAMONDS  AND  HEARTS 


K Comedy  Drama  in  Three  Acts* 

By  EFFIE  W.  MERRIMAN* 

Price,  25  cents* 


This  new  play  has  bounded  at  once  into  a wide  popularity.  The  good  plot, 
ihe  strong  “heart**  interest,  and  the  abundant  comedy  all  combine  to  makt 
a most  excellent  drama.  “Bub**  Barnes  is  a fine  character  of  the  Josh  Whit- 
comb type,  and  his  sister  is  a worthy  companion  “bit.**  Sammy  is  an  excru. 
Ciatingly  funny  little  darkey.  The  other  characters  are  good.  Fine  opportum 
Ity  for  introducing  specialties.  The  play  has  so  many  good  points  that  It 
never  fails  to  be  a success. 

CAST  OF  CHARACTERS. 

Bbrnicb  Halstsad,  a young  lady  of  eighteen,  with  an  affection  of  the 

heart,  a love  for  fun  and  hatred  of  arithmetic 

Amt  Halstead,  her  sister,  two  years  younger,  fond  of  frolic 

Inez  Gray,  a young  lady  visitor,  willing  to  share  in  the  fun 

Mrs.  Halstead,  a widow,  and  stepmother  of  the  Halstead  girls 

Hannah  Mary  Barnes,  or  “Sis,**  a maiden  lady  who  keeps  house  for  her 

brother 

Dwight  Bradley,  a fortune  hunter  and  Mrs.  Halstead’s  son  by  a former 

marriage 

Dr.  Burton,  a young  physician 

Sammy,  the  darky  bell-boy  in  the  Halstead  house 

Abraham  Barnes,  or  “Bub,**  a yankee  farmer,  still  unmarried  at  forty— a 

diamond  in  the  rough 

Attorney;  Sheriff 

Time  of  playing,  two  hours. 

Two  Interior  scenes.  Modern  costumes, 

SYNOPSIS  OF  INCIDENTS. 

Act.  -*  «.rlor  oX  the  Halstead  home.  The  young  doctor.  The  three  girls 
plot  to  make  his  acquaintance.  An  affection  of  the  heart.  “Easy  to  fool  a 
young  doctor,**  but  not  so  easy  after  all.  The  stepmother  and  her  son.  The 
stolen  diamonds.  The  missing  will.  Plot  to  win  Bernice.  “I  would  not 
marry  Dwight  Bradley  for  all  the  wealth  the  world  contains.**  Driven  from 
home. 

Act  2.  Kitchen  of  the  Barnes*  farm  house.  Bub  takes  off  his  boots.  The 
new  school  ma’am.  “Supper  s ready.**  “This  is  our  nephew  and  he’s  a doc- 
tor.’* Recognition..  A difficult  problem  in  arithmetic.  The  doctor  to  the 
rescue.  “I’m  just  the  happiest  girl  in  the  world.’*  “I’ve  come  to  pop  the 
question,  an*  why  don’t  I do  it?’*  Brother  and  sister.  “If  it’s  a heifer,  it’8 
teh  be  mine.’*  The  sheriff.  Arrested  for  stealing  the  diamonds.  “Let  me 
knock  yer  dumed  head  off.’*  The  jewels  found  in  Bernice’s  trunk. 

Act  3.  Parlor  of  the  Halstead  home.  “That  was  a lucky  stroke— hiding 
those  diamonds  in  her  trunk.’*  The  schemer’s  plot  miscarries.  Abe  and 
Sammy  join  hands.  The  lawyer.  “Bully  for  her.’*  Bradley  tries  to  escape. 
“No,  ye  don’t!”  Arrested.  “It  means,  dear,  that  you  are  to  be  persecuted  no 
more.”  Wedding  presents,  and  a war  dance  around  them.  “It  is  no  trick  at 
all  to  fool  a young  doctor.” 


Address  Orders  to 

THE  DRAMATIC  PUBLISHING  COMPANY. 

cHiCAOa 


A WOMAN’S  HONOR, 

A DRAMA  IN  FOUR  ACTS 

By  JOHN  A.  FRASER. 


Amlkor  Of**  A k^oble  Outcast,”  “Santiagro,”  ” Modern  Ananias,** 
Price,  25  cents. 


SeTen  male,  three  female  characters.  Plays  two  hours.  For  in- 
tense dramatic^  action,  thrilling'  climaxes,  uproarious  comedy,  and  a 
story  of  absorbing  romantic  interest,  actors,  either  profesioaal  or  ama- 
teur, will  find  few  plays  to  equal  "‘A  Woman’s  Honor.”  With  careful 
rehearsals  they  will  find  a sure  hit  is  made  every  time  without  dl^culty. 

CAST  OP  CHARACTERS. 


General  Mark  Lester.  A Hero  of  tho  Cuban  Ten  Years  War Lead 

Pedro  Mendez,  his  half  brother Heavy 

Dr.  Garcia,  Surgeon  of  the  Madalin  \ Straight 

Gilbert  Halli  M.  D.,  in  love  with  Oliro Juvenile 

Robert  Glenn,  a W all  Street  Banker Old  man 

Gregory  Grimes,  Lester’s  Private  Secretary Eccentris  comedy 

Ebenezer,  Glenn’s  Butler Negro  comedy 

Olive  I Glen’s  1 Juvenile  lead 

Sally  (Daughters! , Soubrette 

liarJ*,  wife  of  Pedro Charaotm 


NOTE. — Glenn  and  Garcia  may  double 
Act  I.  The  Glenn  Mansion,  New  York  Cit}'. 

Act  a.  The  Isle  of  Santa  Cruz,  off  San  Domin  \o.  One  monlll 

Alter. 

Acte  3 and  4.  Lester’s  homo  at  Santa  Crus.  Five  B^ontbs  latei. 
Between  Acts  3 and  4,  one  day  e lapjes. 

SYNOPSIS  OP  INCIDENTS. 


Act.  I.  Handsome  dra'wing=room  at  Glenn’s.  Sally  ^nd  Ebenezer. 
isn’t  imputtinent,  no,  no,  Missy.”  “ Papa  can’t  bear  Gregory  Grimes, 
Vut  I’m  going  to  marry  him  if  I feel  like  it.”  ” Going  away?  ” ” I was 
dizzy  for  a moment,  that  was  all.”  “ This  marriage  is  absolutely  neces- 
sary to  prevent  my  disgrace,”  ” General  Lester,  you  are  a noble  man, 
♦nd  I will  repay  my  father’s  debt  of  honor.”  ” Bobeit  Glenn  is  dead.” 

Act  3.  Isle  of  Santa  Cruz.  “Mark  brings  his  American  bride  to 
Ilia  home  to^^day.”  You  and  1 and  our  child  will  be  no  better  than  ser- 
vants.” “ How  can  I help  but  be  happy  with  one  so  good  and  kind.** 
“ It  means  1 am  another  man’s  wife.”  “ Dat’a  minOi  don’t  you  go  tt> 
readin’  L?^y  lub  lettahs  in  public,” 

Act  3.  SIttingsroom  in  Lester’s  house.  “ What  has  happened?  la 
■IT husband  safe?”  “ Break  away,  give  your  little  brother  a chance.” 
“ To  tell  the  truth,  my  heart  is  breaking.”  “ Debt  of  duty  I and  I was 
foe  ' enough  to  think  she  loved  me.*’ 

Act  4*  “ The  illness  of  the  General  has  an  ugly  -00k.”  “ The  gos- 
sips have  it  she  would  rejoice  to  be  rid  of  her  husband.”  “ The  Gilbert 
Hall  I loved  is  dead.”  “ Standing  on  the  brink  of  the  grave  my  vision  is 
islearer.”  “Forgive,  and  X win  devote  my  life  to  making  you  happy  in 
A'der  to  repay  the  debt  I owe  you— a debt  of  honor.’’ 

Copies  will  be  sent  postpaid  to  any  address  on  receipt  of  the  pricib 


HAQEIVIAN’S  MAKE-UP  BOOK. 

By  MAURICB  HAOBMAIt 

JkotlKW of  “Wbat  Became  of  Parker,*** ‘Prof.  Robinson,*  •‘HedOTy**  •*3ira 
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Prtoe*  28  cents. 

The  importance  of  an  effective  make-up  is  becoming  more  apparent  tt 
the  professional  actor  evei-y  year,  but  hitherto  there  has  been  no  book  on  the 
subject  describing  the  modern  methods  and  at  the  same  time  covering  all 
branches  of  the  art.  This  want  has  now  been  filled.  Mr.  Hageman  has  had 
an  experience  of  twenty  years  as  actor  and  stage-manager,and  his  well-known 
literaryabilityhas  enabled  him  to  put  the  knowledge  so  gained  into  shape 
to  be  of  use  to  others.  The  book  is  an  encyclopsedia  of  the  art  of  making  up 
Every  branch  of  the  subject  is  exhaustively  treated,  and  few  questions  can 
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Is  not  likely  to  be  superseded  by  any  other.  It  is  absolutely  indispensable 
to  every  ambitious  actor. 

CONTENTS. 


Chapter  L General  Kemark j. 

Chapter  II.  Grease-Paints,  their  origin,  components  and  use. 

Chapter  III.  The  Make«ur  Box.  Grease-Paints,  Mirrors,  Face  Powder  and 
Puff,  Exora  Cream.  Rouge,  Liquid  Color,  Grenadine,  Blue  for  the  Eyelids, 
Brilliantine  for  the  Hair,  Nose  Putty,  Wig  Paste,  Mascaro,  Crape  Hair 
Spirit  Gum,  Scissors,  Artists’  Stomps,  Cold  Cream,  Cocoa  Butter,  Recipes  for 
Cold  Cream. 

Chapter  lY,  Preliminaries  before  Making  up;  the  Straight  Make-up 
and  how  to  remove  it. 

Chapter  V.  Remarks  to  Ladies.  Liquid  Creams,  Rouge,  Lips,  Eyebrows, 
Eyelashes,  Character  Roles,  Jewelry,  Removing  Make-up. 

Chapter  YL  Juveniles.  Straight  Juvenile  Make-up,  Society  Men, 
Young  Men  in  HI  Health,  with  Bed  Wigs,  Rococo  Make-up,  Hands.  Wrists. 
Cb60k8  0tc 

Chapter  YIL  Adults,  Middle  Aged,  and  Old  Men.  Ordinary  Type  or 
Manhood,  Lining  Colors,  Wrinkles,  Rouge,  Sickly  and  Healthy  Old  Age^ 
Ruddy  Complexions. 

Chapter  YlII.  Comedy  and  Character  Make-ups.  Comedy  Effects 
Wigs,  Beards,  Eyebrows,  Noses,  Lips,  Pallor  of  Death. 

Chapter  IX.  The  Human  Features.  The  Mouth  and  Lips,  the  Eyes  and 
Eyelids,  the  Nose,  the  Chin,  the  Ear,  the  Teeth. 

Chapter  X.  Other  Exposed  Parts  of  the  Human  Anatomy. 

Chapter  XL  Wigs,  Beards,  Moustaches,  and  Eyebrows.  Choosing 
a Wig,  Powdering  the  Hair,  Dimensions  for  Wigs,  Wig  Bands,  Bald  Wigs, 
Ladles*  Wigs,  Beards  on  Wire,  on  Gauze,  Crape  Hair,  Wool,  Beards  for 
Tramps,  Moustaches,  Eyebrows. 

Chapter  XII.  Distinctive  and  Traditional  Characteristics.  North 
American  Indians,  New  Eugland  Farmers,  Hoosiers,  Southerners,  Politicians. 
Cowboys,  Miners,  Quakers,  Tramps,  Creoles,  Mulatoes,  Quadroons.  Octo* 
roons,  Negroes,  Soldiers  during  War,  Soldiers  during  Peace,  Scouts,  Path' 
finders,  Puritans,  Early  Dutch  Settlers,  Englishmen,  Scotchmen,  Irishmen, 
Frenchmen,  Italians,  Spaniards,  Portuguese,  South  Americans,  Scandina- 
vians, Germans,  HoUanaers,  Hungarians,  Gipsies,  Russians,  Turks,  Arabs. 
Moors,  Caffirs,  Abysslnlans,  Hindoos,  Malays,  Cbineso;  Japanese,  Clowua  anc 
Statuary,  Hebrews,  Drunkards,  Lunatics,  Idiots,  Misers.  Rogues. 

Address  Orders  to 

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